Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
6
Payton
Two Months Later . . .
Where did the day go?
My stomach chooses that second to growl. Not only did I sit in a cold and drab library all day, my eyes basically bleeding from looking at the books I had to read, but it dawns on me that I also didn’t eat.
I’ll make something and crash for the night.
I need my energy to finish the research on my paper due at the end of the week.
I can’t wait to be done with school.
I can’t wait to be far away from all of this.
As I walk back into my house, after grabbing something from my car, there’s a crunch under my shoe. Little shards of glass litter the floor.
Slowly, I take another step, careful not to crush any more.
I bend over and pick up one of the pieces. It’s blue. It reminds me of the Moreno glass trinket holder I have in the living room.
Turning on the hall light, I head toward the table next to the couch where I usually keep it. That’s when I notice a few things.
One: It’s missing.
Two: And this part makes my back go straight. The window is open.
Did I leave it open?
No. That doesn’t make any sense. Even if I left it open, it wouldn’t explain the glass all over the foyer.
Maybe I left it open, and a gust of wind blew it over.
That is the dumbest thing I have ever thought. There’s no way. But if it didn’t, if it wasn’t my fault, that would mean . . .
A chill runs up my spine.
Someone was here.
Someone broke into my house.
But I was only gone for fifteen minutes.
All the nerve endings in my body become hyperaware. I tilt my head, straining to hear. It’s silent, but I can’t shake the possibility that someone might still be in my house.
Am I being robbed?
Goose bumps break out across my arms.
My phone’s vibrations echo through the house.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Is there anyone there?”
No sound.
I hang up, fully on edge now.
A phone call. A break-in.
I need to call the police.
This sounds far-fetched even to me.
Plus, I might have left the window open myself.
Which reminds me, I need to close it. Then I need to make sure it’s locked. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. Either way, I can’t seem to control the heavy beats of my heart.
Reaching my hand out, I try to shut the window, but the lock won’t click no matter how hard I push.
I’ll have to get that fixed. For now, I grab some duct tape and fix it over the window, taping it up like I’m sealing off the house for fumigation.
I really should call the police, but maybe it was me that left the window open. Why would anyone break-in? I have nothing of value.
Before I can think better of it, I bolt up the stairs to my bedroom, needing to double-check nothing is missing.
Once in my room, I take stock of the space.
My heart pounds. I glance around.
I let out a long, audible sigh. Again, nothing is out of place. I approach my desk next, slowly. Nope. All the papers are still in their usual spot.
But the lid of my laptop is open.
Did I leave it open?
I can’t remember. Why is it you can never remember anything when you need to? But I think I closed it this morning.
I must have
Right?
The following week goes by,and I never find anything out of the ordinary in my house. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Even this morning, it felt like I was being watched on my walk to school.
An unspoken presence floats over me like a spooky ghost. That, coupled with the endless wrong phone calls I keep getting . . . it’s starting to feel like I’m in a bad ’80s horror flick. I’ve been cast as the idiot girl, walking into the dark house, ready to be murdered.
Every morning, like clockwork, my phone rings, but there’s never anyone there.
It’s making me angry.
Today, a song played. Which was creepy as hell.
A thought hits me.
Shit.
Is this Trent Aldridge?
I’ve waited months for him to show back up in my life. Every day that passed, I expected the call from Mr. Baker, informing me Ronald’s family is taking me to court.
Are the calls from him?
Did he break into my house?
No.
That’s ridiculous.
He wouldn’t get his hands dirty.
Unless . . . this is part of a bigger plan.
But what can that plan be?
To make me look unhinged?
If he’s as smart as I think he is, this goes beyond scaring me. That’s too juvenile. If I go to the cops, looking as paranoid as I do, I become the unhinged lunatic in their eyes, just in time for Trent to serve me with papers. It’s a damn good way to ruin my character. It also pushes me into a corner.
No cops.
No reprieve.
I’m out of options.
When I take a seat in my chair in the classroom, Heather is already there.
“Any word yet from the dickbag?” Heather asks. After the showdown in the lawyer’s office, I mentioned that I was scared he would be a thorn in my side. I didn’t go into details because I don’t want to drag her into this mess with me.
Every day that has since passed, we started class with a mini-meltdown. She pries me for info while I give vague answers, unsure whether Trent Aldridge would stoop so low as to come after my friend.
“Well?” Heather follows up, watching as I take out my laptop for notes. A gift from Ronnie.
The answer is no. I haven’t heard a word from Trent or Mr. Baker in over two months.
What does that mean for me?
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m getting nervous.
Too much time has passed.
It feels like one shoe has dropped down on me, and I’m waiting for the other one to hit me in the head. With my luck, it’ll crash down, weighing a million pounds, and cause a nuclear fallout in destruction.
Yep. That’s me. Forever the optimist. Watch out for my TED talk.
“Come on, Payton.” Heather edges closer. “You’re killing me here.”
I sigh, finally bringing myself to answer. “It’s kind of crazy, but I still haven’t heard anything.”
The muscles in my body hurt. Too tight for comfort.
Sitting with my friend should relax me, but I can’t help the tension in my back. It’s been there for the past couple of months. I’m a hot mess of distress. A punchline for a bad joke.
I walk around looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to approach.
I’m so uptight it’s like I’m a piece of glass, bound to smash to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Then what’s the problem?” Heather nudges my shoulder. “That’s a good thing, right? Why the scowl on your face?”
Lifting my hands to my eyes, I scrub away the exhaustion. “That’s the problem,” I admit, lowering my arms back down in my lap.
“That you haven’t heard?”
I nod.
“That has to be a good thing. If something were to go down, it would have already, right?”
My teeth lower, biting my lip. “No. It’s not a good thing. The longer I wait for his next move, the sicker I get over it. I feel like someone is fucking with me. Or at least, I can’t be too sure it’s not the case.”
“Maybe there is no next move. Maybe he’ll let you live your life. Maybe he’ll respect his father’s wishes.”
I roll my eyes at her comment. If only it were that simple. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes. The malice and hatred. This isn’t over. If anything, this is part of the game.”
“How so?”
“He’s making me squirm. He’s basically an angry lion, playing with his food. He might not have killed me yet, but eventually, he’ll pounce.”
“That sounds oddly sexual. And he is smoking hot.” She smirks.
“What? Stop. How do you even know that?”
“How does anyone know anything in this modern age? I googled him, Payton. Duh.” Heather rolls her eyes as if I should’ve assumed she’d google him. “You really thought that wasn’t the first thing I did?”
“You never mentioned it.”
“Ronald just died. I thought it would be insensitive to mention his son is hot as fuck!”
“Shh. Can you be any louder?”
I look around the room, but it is still relatively empty, and no one appears to be paying attention to us anyway. I shake my head.
“Plus, he’s not that hot,” I say lamely.
I’m not fooling her. Not with how warm my cheeks feel. Like he’s grazed a red-hot poker against my skin, ready to brand.
“Yes, he is, and even your frigid ass knows it, honey.”
Her voice is way too loud this time, and the student sitting next to her giggles. Sam. I hate Sam right now.
“Can you shut up? Someone will hear you.”
Sam is actually playing on her cell. That’s why she is laughing, not because of me. No one is listening. No one cares.
“Oh, shut it. Look at this man,” she chides as she unlocks the home screen of her cell and starts to google Trent. When his picture is on the screen, she flashes it at me. She’s like a dog with a bone when she wants info, and she won’t give up asking until I give it to her.
“Fine.”
“Go on . . .”
I shrug. “He’s not bad on the eyes.”
“Getting warmer. Cut the shit. Just admit it.”
“Jeez.” I exhale. “Fine. I think he’s hot. Like smoking hot. Nuclear hot. The hottest man I have ever seen. Hot.” I let out an audible, dramatic-as-hell sigh.
She giggles. The smirk on her face is enough to make me place an ad in a newspaper: accepting applications for a new best friend.
“Yes, maybe he’s hot, but he’s also a total douche canoe,” I follow up.
“Douche canoe? Really?”
“Dick. He’s a huge dick.”
“I wonder if McHottie has a huge dick.” She completely ignores my distress. Typical Heather.
If I wasn’t embarrassed before, now I’m really cringing.
“Totally off-topic,” I mockingly scold. “How hot or big his dick is,” I whisper, “is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Her eyebrow raises, and again, I’m totally second-guessing this friendship. Too bad I love her ass and could never replace her.
“The point is, I’m afraid he’s coming for me.”
“With his big dick?”
“Yes.”
She bursts into laughter, and I realize what I’ve just said.
“What?” I backtrack, chanting, “No. No. No. No.”
“The lady doth protest too much.”
“Really? You cannot use Shakespeare when I’m talking about Trent Aldridge. The man is the devil incarnate. And I don’t want him like that.” I use my stern voice.
I don’t know whether he’s behind the break-in or the phone calls, but I suspect he is. I don’t trust that man. When I met him, he was way too smug and full of himself for my taste.
She takes a deep breath and straightens her back, then drops her voice. “Do you really think he’ll come after you . . . ?” Her voice trails off as if she finally realizes how scared I am.
I’m about to answer and finally tell her about all the strange stuff that’s happened to me when the door opens and our professor walks in. I turn my attention toward the front of the class.
“Ms. Hart,” she says, looking straight at me. The muscles in my neck tighten. She just said my name, and I have no idea why. “Can you stay after to speak with me?”
I nod.
“What’s that about?” Heather whispers.
So wrapped up in Trent-stress, I lift my shoulders before remembering I applied for a position in the department for next semester. After this year, I plan to continue my education and get my master’s. The program is super competitive, so working with the department will help my chances of getting accepted.
“Maybe it’s for the position.”
Her eyes light up, and she smiles broadly.
Both of us know this could be huge for me.
The class goes by, and for the first time in months, I’m not thinking of how Trent Aldridge will reap his revenge. Instead, I’m thinking about what I can do to get far away from my sister.
Erin has been so difficult.
That’s an understatement.
Between yelling, crying, and accusing me of sleeping with Ronnie for his money, it sucks being near her. Then there’s her new boyfriend.
My body shivers uncontrollably.
But if I get this recommendation, I can get any job I want.
One even hundreds of miles away. Coupled with the money Ronald left me, the future looks bright.
Once the class ends, I stand from my chair and approach my professor.
“This is a little unorthodox, but I’ve been asked to deliver a message to you on behalf of student services,” she says without looking up at me from her slideshow notes. It’s clear she thinks I’ve inconvenienced her and that, whatever this is about, she thinks it’s my fault. “They’d like you to visit their building the first chance you have.”
I deflate like a torn balloon. Would it kill her to smile? She knows I want this position. The woman has hated me since day one.
“Okay, thank you.”
Turning back the way I came, I make my way out the door to the student services building. My throat feels clogged. I’ve never heard of student services calling a student to their building. Everything is done online. The building is staffed with students, run by a single adult, which isn’t a power dynamic I’m interested in thrusting myself into.
I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office as I wait my turn in a row of students who’ve missed tuition and have questions on how to get more financial aid. When it’s my turn, I step up to one of the sophomores running the station, slipping her my student ID. She whistles then turns to flag down her supervisor, who takes over.
“Hi, Ms. Hart.” His name tag reads Happy, but he looks anything but. “We processed your tuition for the semester on the card on file, but it bounced after the hold period.”
“Bounced?” I echo, curling my toes inward. This cannot be happening.
“There seems to be a problem with your payment method, and you don’t have an alternate one on file. We’ve issued several alerts on the campus’s portal system, along with dozens of dunning emails. Since all of them went unanswered, you are currently showing up as an unregistered student.”
Impossible.
Dozens of emails?
I check them daily. Hourly, as a matter of fact. I’m sinking inside, unable to accept this reality.
“I don’t understand.” My hands are shaking. “This makes no sense. I didn’t even get an email! My portal looks fine.”
I pull out my phone and log in to the school’s app. Sure enough, there’s a little red exclamation point on the messenger icon, which wasn’t there when I checked this morning. I immediately palm my phone, stuttering out a lie about forgetting my password.
Any sympathy this dude has for me is wiped out in a second. “Until we straighten this out, you’re not an active student.”
“Who do I have to speak to?” I ask in a daze.
“I strongly suggest you pay the tuition as soon as possible. None of your problems will be solved otherwise. As for reinstating your student status for the semester, it may be too late, but in case it isn’t, you need to speak with the registrar.”
“Fine.”
I don’t bother saying anything else as I dash for the door. The sooner I get this finished, the faster I can move toward my future.
It doesn’t take me more than five minutes to reach the registrar’s office.
That’s the beauty of a small, private university.
“I need to speak with someone,” I say to anyone in the office who will listen. It’s a little grandiose and super dramatic, but it works.
“Do you have an appointment?” the lady behind a desk says.
“No. But it’s an emergency. The supervisor I talked to at student services said I need to speak with someone in the registrar’s office.”
“What is your name?”
“Payton Hart.”
I hear her hands typing on her computer. Then she nods to herself.
“Oh. You’re the student with the unanswered dunning emails.”
The student.
As in one.
Guess that’s the bad thing about small, private universities. When shit happens, there’s not really company for the misery. Only an audience.
“We tried to call you,” she continues, “but it says your line was disconnected, and they couldn’t get in touch with you.”
“I didn’t get a call.”
“Like I said, normally, the registrar would call you, but they couldn’t get in touch with you.”
“But—”
I shake my head. There’s no use in arguing. In fact, it only seems to make the stern lines of her face deepen. Does everyone hate me at this school?
I reach into my bag, pull out my phone, and scroll through the contacts, hitting the button for Heather’s number.
The phone doesn’t ring.
The phone doesn’t do anything.
What the hell?
My phone has no service. It’s as if the number has been shut off, but that makes no sense. The bills are on autopay. I used it to scroll through Dog Instagram this morning. It’s functioning. It’s on. It just has no service.
How can that be?
How long has it been since I accepted a call?
The only person who ever called me or texts me off a messenger app is Erin, and I just assumed she preferred to duke it out face-to-face.
The registrar lady nods. “Forget to pay your bill?”
I never paid my bill—didn’t even know when it was due.
My sister does. No, not my sister.
Ronald.
He pays my bills.
This is the first time since he disappeared that there’s been a problem. Erin told me that while he was in jail, before his death, his lawyer took care of everything.
Trent.
The name ping-pongs inside me, rage building with it. He’s the one in charge. Maybe it’s a simple mistake. Or maybe I’m a dumbass with a penchant for underestimating assholes. Either way, I’d rather double-check with Mr. Baker to see if he can help straighten things out for me before approaching the devil himself.
I need to call Mr. Baker.
It feels like I’m floating up above myself, but the woman in front of me is still talking. Only a few words flood through my brain.
No tuition.
No class.
I can’t take classes until I settle my account. And if I don’t settle my account in time, I’ll be ineligible to complete the semester. There’s no way I’ll graduate in time if that happens.
With my shoulders hunched forward, I know where I have to go.
Home.
I have no doubt in my mind that Trent is a part of this somehow. That he’s chosen to come after me. How else would the silent calls come through and no one else’s? It sounds crazy just saying it, but there’s no other possibility.
Now that Trent’s chosen to come at me, I need to know what my options are. Will there even be anything left at the end of all this if he gets petty and steals the money? One thing’s for sure—he’s up to something.
I walk the three blocks to my house and find a tow truck in my driveway.
The car Ronnie gifted me is already halfway lifted on the back.
“What are you doing?” I scream from the street as I run toward where a man is stepping into the truck my car has been rigged to.
Shit.
“Stop!” I shout.
The door closes. The ignition turns. I’m now at the driver’s side, hitting the door.
“What are you doing?” I yell between pants. “Get my car off this thing.”
The window rolls down. “Sorry. No can do.”
“What do you mean no can do? What kind of answer is that?”
How can they take my car?
“Listen, little girl. No. Can. Do. I have one job. That job is to collect the cars at the address provided to me by my boss.”
“And then what? I don’t understand how you can take my car as if it’s yours.”
“I just take ’em.” He shrugs. “I don’t keep them for myself. I can’t tell you much, but I have to assume not paying your bill will do this.”
“But I did—”
“That’s what they all say.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be here if you did.”
Before I can say anything else, he shifts the truck in drive, and I step back.
Nothing can be done.
Another bill hasn’t been paid, and I have a sinking feeling I know why.
Rearranging my bag over my shoulder, I tentatively walk toward the door.
My heart hammers in my chest as I make my approach.
There is no way that, from where I am, I can read the writing on the paper. It isn’t clear, but I already know what it will say.
I don’t need to read it. I know I’m being evicted.
And the worst part?
I now know for sure that my hunch was right. I know who is behind this.
Trent Aldridge.
He threw down the gauntlet.
I have no choice but to play the game.
Then I hear a chirp from my pocket.
Great. Now the phone is working again!
Grabbing my cell, I scroll my texts that are showing up again. Then I go to the contacts and dial her number, holding my breath to see if it even rings. It does. Again, I have this stomach-churning feeling I’m being watched. My eyes skim my surroundings and find nothing. I hunch my shoulders as if it’ll protect me from prying eyes.
Erin answers after the third ring.
“Fancy of you to call me after ignoring my hundreds of calls. What do you want? To ruin my life some more?” She scoffs. “Maybe steal something else from me?”
“Erin, you know that’s not what it’s like,” I say softly.
How can she think I did this on purpose?
“Do I? Because from where I’m standing, that’s exactly what this is. My boyfriend left you all his money. Do you know how bad that looks?”
“Erin—”
“No, don’t Erin me. After everything . . .” She pauses, letting her rage consume her. It’s so palpable, I can feel it through the line. It forces me a step back. “I gave up my life for you, and you get the money. That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it.”
“Erin,” I say again, trying to calm her.
“Unless you are signing over the money to me, I have nothing to say to you,” she spits out.
“That’s why I’m calling,” I tell her, hoping that’s enough for her to listen to me.
“To give me the money?”
“Not exactly . . .” I wince. “I mean, yes, some of it, of course. He was your boyfriend, after all. That was always the plan.”
“Save me the stutters. I don’t want to hear it—”
“I will give you money,” I rush out, “all of it. But first, I need access to it. Seeing as none of my bills have been paid, I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen.”
She lets out a large, angry growl. It sounds like a pissed-off animal. Of course, she is angry. She wants to be the one in charge. I, on the other hand, felt relief at first. If Erin were in charge, there would be no money left by the time I hit twenty-two. It never dawned on me I might have the same problem with Trent.
I don’t need all the money, but I need enough to pay for school and start over somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
“So, why are you calling me?” Erin hisses. “It’s not like I’m the one in charge of the money.”
“I need you to tell me where Trent works, lives, and where you think I can find him. What he’s doing is bullshit.”
Time to stand up to the ass.