Chapter 8

Bridget stepped out from the shadow of the metal shed. She intentionally brought her boot down hard on the gravel. The loud crunch echoed in the tight space.

The girl listening to the poetry frowned at the interruption. She turned, saw the absolute murder in Bridget's eyes, and immediately scurried away without a word.

Kurtis turned around. When he saw Bridget-the girl who was supposed to be dying in a hospital bed-standing right in front of him, his eyes widened in panic.

He blinked rapidly. He forced his facial muscles to shift, pasting on a look of deep, agonizing concern.

Kurtis took a step forward. He reached his hand out, aiming for her shoulder, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Bridget, my god, are you okay?"

Bridget didn't hesitate. She swung her arm and slapped his hand away. The loud smack of flesh on flesh stung her palm, but the force made Kurtis hiss in pain.

The mask of the caring gentleman cracked. Kurtis pulled his hand back to his chest, his eyes turning dark and defensive.

Bridget didn't give him a second to speak. She held out her open palm. Her voice was flat. "The letters."

Kurtis swallowed hard. He tugged at his collar, his eyes darting around the empty space. He let out a nervous laugh and played dumb, claiming he had no idea what she meant.

The corner of Bridget's mouth curled up. She pulled out the nuclear option.

She lifted her wrist, staring at a watch she wasn't wearing. She spoke in a calm, conversational tone, delivering a complete lie.

She told Kurtis that her mother, Corda, was currently sitting in the county Sheriff's office.

She enunciated the charges perfectly: Using his status as a city volunteer to deceive and corrupt the morals of a local minor, driving her to a public suicide attempt. She asked him how the Sheriff would handle a city boy ruining a hometown girl.

The words "Sheriff" and "harassment" hit Kurtis like a freight train. All the color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly gray.

He started stuttering uncontrollably. He waved his hands, pleading that she wrote them willingly, that he never touched her.

Bridget took a step closer, invading his space. Her voice dropped to a demonic whisper. She reminded him that a local jury would always side with the hometown girl who almost drowned.

She laid out his future: The moment the Sheriff opened an investigation, his East Coast scholarship and his entire life would burn to the ground.

Beads of cold sweat broke out on Kurtis's forehead. His psychological defenses shattered under the weight of her flawless logic.

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He looked at her like she was a monster wearing a familiar face.

Kurtis spun around. He dropped to his knees and ripped open the zipper of his green canvas duffel bag sitting by the shed.

His hands shook so violently he could barely move the clothes aside. He dug frantically into the bottom.

He pulled out a thick stack of pink envelopes, tied together with a cheap red ribbon.

He scrambled to his feet. He shoved the stack into Bridget's hand like it was covered in acid.

He leaned in, his voice a pathetic, begging whisper. He pleaded with her to run and stop her mother before the cops came.

Bridget looked down. She ran her thumb over the edges, confirming the handwriting and the thickness. It was all of them.

She shoved the stack into her coat pocket. She looked up and hit him with a stare of pure, unadulterated disgust.

Without a single word, she turned her back on him and walked away.

Kurtis slumped against the metal shed. His legs gave out, and he slid down to the dirt, gasping for air, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Bridget walked out of the main gates of the camp. She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The heavy, suffocating weight that had lived in the original Bridget's chest completely dissolved.

She patted her pocket. It was time to burn it.