Page 28 of Pocketful of Shame

"Who – Chris?" That was Presley.

Sniffling, I nodded. "He said he didn’t want to leave me defenseless so he wrote it all down."

"Where?"

"In his journal," I replied wearily.

"What journal?" Presley asked. "Where is it?"

"I don’t know," I croaked out. "It was in his car the night he died."

"Where did it go, Romi?" he demanded. "We need that journal."

"I don’t know," I cried. "I don’t want to think about it."

"You don’t get a choice," Sketch growled. "Start fucking talking."

Inhaling a steadying breath, I clenched my eyes shut, feeling the tears trickle down my cheeks, as I forced the words out. "When Chris left me at the restaurant, the men followed him outside. He told me to wait – to call Presley if he didn’t come back. I didn’t listen."

Silence fell around us, both boys quiet as mice, and I forced myself to continue. "I tried to find him. He called and I –" shivering, I swallowed deeply and pushed on, "I could hear his breathing growing labored. He was trying to warn me – screaming at me to get away from Pocketful." A tear slid down my cheek. "I kept trying to tell him that I wasn't in Pocketful – I thought he was confused or something. I didn’t know what was happening until I – until I heard the gun shot."

A pained growl tore from Sketch's chest. "Keep going."

"I don’t –"

"Please," he ground out. "Just keep fucking going."

"I could hear them," I squeezed out. "On the phone and in real life. That's when I looked down the alleyway and saw them. They were so close to where I was standing." Sniffling, I whispered, "Chris was lying on the ground. The four men were standing over him. Taunting him. Watching him bleed out."

"Jesus Christ," Presley groaned, twisting around in what looked like physical pain.

"I hid behind a dumpster and listened," I continued, trembling violently. "They were talking about me – telling Chris that they wouldn’t hurt me just yet because their boss had bigger plans for me."

"What the actual fuck?" Sketch demanded, his voice a furious snarl.

"I don’t know, okay?" I cried out. "I don’t understand any of this either."

"Keep going, Romi," Presley coaxed, sounding pained. "What happened next?"

"Then one of them realized Chris was on the phone with me." I sniffled. "And they beat him for it. Then the man – Catochi – he got on the phone and started speaking directly to me." Flinching and cowering at the memory, I choked out, "He said I had to clean his mess up. Make it all disappear. He said if I didn’t – if I opened my mouth or left Pocketful – then he and his men would kill the other brother."

"Sketch," Presley filled in knowingly.

Sniffling, I nodded. "After they left, I tried to get Chris to a hospital, but he refused. He said no cops. He made me help him into the car and he told me to drive back to Pocketful – he said we didn’t have a choice. That we had to do this because they knew."

"Knew what?"

"I don’t know," I sobbed. "He kept telling me that it was his fault and that he was sorry, but he couldn’t leave me defenseless – that's why he gave me the journal. He said it had everything I needed in it. He told me to keep it safe." Shaking my head, I released a pained breath. "I'm sorry. I don’t know where it is."

"It's okay," Presley ground out. "What happened after he gave you the journal?"

"He made me promise that I would crash the car," I cried, tears scorching my cheeks. "He said it would buy us some time."

"Time for what?" Sketch demanded.

"To get away," I sobbed, wrapping my arms around myself. "Nothing in Pocketful is as it seems."

I didn’t realize I was screaming until the truck came to a sudden halt and Presley's voice boomed with authority. "She's freaking out. Get back there and hold her before she climbs back inside that head of hers, dammit. I'll drive."

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