The Coldest Summer✓

Fifty-three

A day has gone by since Liam departed from my house—and my life maybe. If he hadn't told me he was leaving the city, I would've blindly lied to myself that something dreadful has happened to him and that's why he can't call me back. But that is not the case, I know it.

He just doesn't want to talk to me. He's furious with me.

But when my phone buzzes after a monument of time, a slight ray of hope beams my way at the thought of it being Liam calling, but my heart sinks when I find no one but Jonathan. I close my eyes, frustrated, before releasing a long breath. I watch the screen for a while until I decide to answer with so much anger and reluctance.

"Hi, Kira," he greets.

"What is it?" My voice is hostile and I can't help it.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asks, and I swallow hard to control my impulse. "Kira?" he calls again.

"Jonathan, please. Let's save the pretense and roll straight to the reason why you called! I'm not in the mood for the pleasantries," I flap, pain and disappointment being the chief of my disposition.

Jonathan has nothing important to say other than thanking me for what I did. How ironic! Thanks to my statement and the medical information from Jeremy's psychiatrist, he was able to be released under the mental instability defense.

"Well, congratulations! Is that what you want to hear from me?" I snap.

"Um, not really. I just wanted to tell you that—" He pauses, and the memories from last night make me smother a cry that has him ask, "Kira, are you okay?"

"No, I'm not, and it's thanks to all of you!" Warm tears burn at the back of my eyes. "Now if you're done, can I hang up? Because I have no interest in knowing anything about your family! I don't want to see you, Sam, or your brother! I've done what you all asked me to so leave me alone!"

I want to cry my heart out, screaming out loud, but will it help?

No, I'm done with this. I'm so fucking done weeping like a child.

"Okay, Kira. Okay." Jonathan says calmly. "The court has established a restraining order, so he won't come near you—I promise. I'll make sure of that as he's going to leave L. A tomorrow for everyone's sake."

"I hope so," I say with a pause, "because if he comes near me, I swear I won't be responsible for whatever happens. I don't care what I'll have to do to get rid of his face at my sight, Jonathan!"

I'll kill him if necessary.

"I understand. And trust me, Jeremy will never get near you again. I know what I'm talking about," he insists. I sigh. "Are you okay, though? You sound a bit strange. Is it about Sam? I think she'll come around, Kira, just give her some time," he wisely let me know.

I roll my tired eyes.

Honestly, Sam is the least of my worries at the moment, if not at all. For all I care, she can go deep into the hell pit.

After a shower, I realize I'm about to go crazy and I may need someone to talk to. I drag myself to Amelia's; she's the only one I can think of. After knocking on her door about three times, it finally creaks open.

Relief washes over me when I see her ginger head poking over the keychain.

"Kira?" she calls gleefully, tucking the chain off to let the wide. But her smile fades upon seeing my languid smile. "What's wrong, dear?" She swings the door wider and sprints her chubby body out.

"Can I talk to you?" I ask her, desperately.

"Of course, Kira, come in," she offers.

I've never been inside her place before. A smooth fragrance of vanilla and butter welcomes me. My genuine smile appears and curious my eyes wander. Her living room looks like a little museum of a kind. There's a wooden shelf full of antiques and relics—like an old clock and intricate wooden carvings of bald African women stationed on the side slots.