"You should go out sometime, Ade," Travis tells me. We're talking on the phone. Out of all of the students, I'm closest to Travis.

"I guess," I say.

"I meant like tonight," he tells me.

"Why?" I ask.

"You seem different lately. Happier, more relaxed. You should enjoy your life," he tells me. I laugh.

"When have you ever given good advice?" I ask.

"I always give good advice," he says. "At least when I smoke pot."

"Maybe I will go out."

"Shit, I gotta go," he says. "Bye."

"Don't be a dumbass. Bye." I'm laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"He's gone, Ade," I murmur. "He's gone."
It's like if I keep saying it enough, it'll finally sink in.

I haven't gone out to a bar in four years. Maybe Travis is right. Maybe I should go out. I sigh and stand up, turning on my light, opening the curtains. I walk over to my closet and pull out a black dress and heels.

I slip the dress on. It's a simple black dress. I reach for the heels and slide one on. The other falls from my hand.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Braxton said harshly.

"I'm sorry." I looked at him. "I won't wear heels anymore."

We were the same height. He didn't like it when I was taller than him. I'd made the mistake of wearing heels once before.

"I don't want sorry. I want better," he said. He grabbed my face roughly, his fingers digging in. "I don't know what everyone sees in you, Adelaide. Your books are shit."

"I'm sorry, Braxton," I said. His breath smelled like Whiskey. His fingers tightened on my chin. Someone knocked on his door. We were in his office.

"Go away," he yelled. He looked at me with disgust in his eyes. He released my chin.

"I won't wear heels," I said quietly.

"Useless whore." He threw me into his desk.

I blink, my hands flying to my ribs. I had bruises for two weeks after he threw me into that desk.

I take my heel off and close the curtains, turning off the light. I'm stupid to think that I can go out and be okay. My phone buzzes.

Travis: Go out, Ade.

I sigh.

"He can't hurt you anymore," I whisper quietly to myself.

Someone bangs on the door and I jump. I grab a sweatshirt and walk to the door.

"Kincaid!" Oh, shit. It's David. My rent is late. "Where's my money?"

I unlock five of the six locks on my door but leave the chain lock.

"Hi," I say, opening the door two inches.

"Where's my money?"

"I'm working on it. I'm just a little short this month," I tell him.

"You have until the end of the day tomorrow or you're out," he says.

"That's not enough time. Please, David, just give me one more-"

"Most people would have been out on the streets. The only reason why you're still here is that nice ass of yours," David says. "Nine PM," he calls as he walks away.

I sigh and lock my door, sinking against it. I'm two hundred dollars short. Shit. What am I supposed to do?

I stand up and walk back to my room. It's 6:31 right now. There's no way I could make enough money at the diner, but I might as well try. I change into my uniform for the diner, a pink and white dress and zip a sweatshirt over it.

I grab my bag and walk out of my apartment, locking the door. I keep looking over my shoulder, looking for him. He's gone but it doesn't matter.

He's gone but he still haunts me. He's a presence that continues to linger. But he's even more of a shadow; always there, just over my shoulder or trailing behind me, doing just enough to torment me.

I can't get rid of him. He plagues my mind, leaving my skin crawling and me shaking. He's stolen four years of my life and I've tried everything to make him go away.

But maybe some monsters never truly die, living in our heads.

Someone taps my shoulder and I jump. I pull out my earbuds and spin around.

"Hey, girl," Maria says. She works at the diner with me. We're friendly.

"Hey," I say, forcing a smile.

"Damn, Ade, you jumpy as hell," she tells me.

"You workin' tonight?" I ask. She has her uniform on.

"Nah, I just got off my shift. You?" I think she's close to my age. I'm twenty-six.

"Yeah, my landlord is threatening to evict me. I need two-hundred dollars somehow," I tell her.

"I'm sure you'll find it somehow," she tells me. I smile. "Anyways, I gotta get home and get dinner for my kid."

"Alright. Say hi to Alejandro for me," I tell her. She nods. She's brought her kid by to work a couple of times. He's really cute.

"Bye."

I walk into the dinner and into the employee locker room. I'm shoving my bag into my locker when Joe walks in. He owns the dinner.

"I didn't think you were working," he says. I shrug.

"Is it okay? I just need some extra money," I tell him.

"Yeah," he says and then walks away. I've been working at the dinner for somewhere around a year. Normally my shift is morning to early afternoon. I tie on my apron and walk out.

I grin when I see George. He's this really sweet older guy. George usually comes to the diner at least once a day.

"Hey, George," I say. He smiles.

"Ade! I didn't know you were working," he says. I shrug.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" I ask.

"More coffee and a slice of pecan pie," he tells me. I nod and walk into the kitchen, grabbing a slice of pie and a coffee pot. I walk out and hand George his pie, refilling his coffee.

"Did you hear about the man that got killed?" George asks.

I hear the TV, "And the Manhattan Special Victims Unit is still at large for the man behind the brutal murder of millionaire, Braxton Thorne..."

"I guess. It's all over the news," I say, forcing a smile.

"Just be careful, Ade. There's a lot of bad people in this world," George says.

"I know, George."

After a couple of hours, the diner is pretty empty. It's a relatively quiet night.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, ma'am?" I ask. The woman shakes her head. "Have a good night."

I sigh and walk into the employee room. I've made sixty dollars in tips. It's still not nearly enough. I look at my watch. It's 2:35 AM.

"Fuck," I mutter. I don't know what to do. I walk back out. I'm busing tables when two men walk in. "I'll be with you in a minute," I say.

"Camille Kincaid." I know that voice. I look up quickly. It's the detectives.

"Yes?"

Detective Wells walks towards me, handcuffs dangling in his hand.

"Camille Kincaid, you're under arrest for the murder of Braxton Thorne," he says. He pulls my wrists behind my back roughly and slides the handcuffs on."You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to you..."