Blend

26:00 | down the rabbit hole

I SLEEP for a long time. It's the safest I've felt in hours. And when I wake up around two AM, I'm starving.

I shuffle to the kitchen, taking out a Hot Pocket to put in the microwave. While it cooks, I take out Kaliya's old phone and power it on. It's got some dings but works just fine.

The first thing I do is visit the news. I gotta see what they know about this case and where they think I am.

I've almost finished devouring my Hot Pocket when I finally track down something. I click on the video segment.

A woman in a muted suit inside a studio says, "All eyes are on the 4th Avenue Jail this evening as authorities scavenge the city for the former ASU basketball star and pupil, Wallace Jones. Jones was brought into the jail early this morning for questioning regarding the mysterious death of Penelope Adams, a fellow ASU student, and the daughter of state legislator, Hugh Adams. ABC 15 reporter, Stephanie Fischer, has more on this story. Stephanie?"

Another woman in a purple coat stands in front of an all too familiar background: Uncle Joe's farm. "Thank you, Carrie. I'm here in Cottonwood, Arizona, in Jones' hometown. After an extensive search, local authorities have confirmed he has not returned home. Instead, investigators believe he is trying to cross the border to avoid arrest. But perhaps the most shocking part of this story is not that Wallace Jones is on the run but how he was able to escape one of Arizona's most secured facilities."

The footage cuts to the warden of 4th Avenue Jail, who claims that Crawley's involvement is largely due to a 'medical condition'. I flounder until a guy in the comments section claims that's code for early stages of dementia. So that's how he'll get out of this mess? Damn. I have so many feelings about that.

The reporter continues, "Authorities are asking to call the police if you come into contact with Jones. He is considered highly dangerous and has a record of violence."

I almost choke on my drink. Record of violence? And then I remember what Chris told me at the beginning of all this. That the cops were using shit I'd done when I was twelve to support their theory about me—that I'm some coldhearted killer.

I scoff, my eyes scanning the comments. I grow more disheartened.

Sure, there are some who argue I'm innocent until proven guilty, but the overwhelming majority don't. I see people screaming to lock me up and throw away the key. A few discuss my school records like my mom shoulda known. One lady says something so simple but it rubs me the wrong way.