IV

In her dreams, she was running.

In her dreams, Kennedy was always running.

She was running in Tampa, along the beach, on the morning before she killed Hank. She was thinking through her plan for the day. She was running and thinking and trying not to trip over the little crabs that scurried under the sand when they saw her approaching, feet pounding and breath coming out in bursts.

Kennedy had always loved the beach. She loved everything about it. The sand in between her toes, the ocean lapping at her ankles as she ran. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore, one after the other, continuously making their way up only to be forced back down again.

Kennedy resonated with the waves in that way. Her entire life had been working her way up only to be pushed back down. She worked her way up in middle school, trying to make friends and become someone who others wanted to be around. She had been pushed down by her parent's divorce her sophomore year of high school, when her father had moved to northern Virginia and she had been forced to go back and forth from her father's new home to her childhood home in southern Maryland, where her mother had retained ownership. The drive had been under an hour in length, but it had been enough for her friends to stop inviting her places on most weekends.

She had worked her way back up over her senior year of high school, even booking a modeling gig with a company who had spotted her at the mall with her new friends. But then the gig had been taken away when her father married Lydia Farrow—they thought they could get a much more interesting Abrams for their cover story.

And then came college. Then came the time she had moved hundreds of miles away from her parents and built a name outside of her rich upbringing. She had built her entire persona up, until Hank Wilcox came along, and Rebecca Eaves, and everything had gone up in flames.

So, in her dreams, Kennedy ran. She ran along the beach, feeling connected to the waves around her, the morning before everything happened. The morning before she had ruined everything for a third time. When she woke up, she wouldn't feel remorse. But in her dreams, where her subconscious reigned, she wished she could go back and keep Hank Wilcox alive. Keep her life alive.

When she woke up, everything felt dead. The sun didn't even stream into her room, and Kennedy flipped over in bed to check the time on the giant alarm clock that her mother had sent her as part of her 21st birthday package.

3:42 AM.

It made sense why the sun wasn't streaming in.

Kennedy tossed and turned for the next five hours, finally dragging herself out of bed a bit before 8:30. She walked out into the living room of her apartment, where Lyla and Rian were already sitting and eating breakfast, talking to each other with animated smiles and laughter. They looked up when Kennedy walked in and their smiles faded a bit, giving way to forced grins that made Kennedy feel sick. She wanted Rebecca to come back and grovel at her feet like she had for the past few months.

"Hey, guys."

"Hey, Ken." Rian smile became a bit more genuine, "You have a phone call waiting. I think it's your lawyer."

"Thanks," Kennedy nodded and walked over to where she had left her phone charging on the kitchen counter the night before. She opened it up to find three missed calls from Brianne Hotchky, the last one time stamped at three minutes earlier.

"I have a schedule of events for you," the attorney greeted Kennedy on the first ring, "Be at my office in fifteen minutes."

"I can't do—" Kennedy cut herself off when the line went dead.

"Alrighty," she muttered under her breath. She ignored the curious looks Lyla and Rian gave her and walked back to her room, throwing together an outfit that would at least be somewhat presentable in a lawyer's office.

When she arrived at Hotchky & Fitch, Kennedy was met at the office doors by a swarm of people shoving microphones in her face and taking pictures. A security officer grabbed her arm and escorted her inside the offices, keeping the band of people vying for her attention outside.

"Sit down." Hotchky ordered as Kennedy was marched into her office, which was occupied by Hotchky along with three men Kennedy had never seen before.

"What's going on?" Kennedy sat down in the seat she was shown.

"Watch."

Brianne Hotchky clicked on the television across from Kennedy and the accused murderer found herself staring at a local talk show host, Mary Haden, talking at the camera.

My mom used to watch her, Kennedy thought, I thought she was on late at night.

"It's a rerun of last night's episode." Brianne snapped, as if she had read Kennedy's mind. "Listen." She clicked the volume up four times.

"Our next guest is a woman who finally feels confident coming forward about what she knows concerning her late husband. Join us after the commercial when we speak with Elizabeth Wilcox, widow of former philanthropist millionaire Hank Wilcox. We'll be right back."

In that moment, Kennedy could have sworn her throat closed in on itself.

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"And what can I do for you?"

The fact that she had actually asked that question still haunted Rebecca as she walked around her apartment the next day, trying and failing to think of a real excuse for why she would help Kennedy's estranged parents work against her. It had to end at some point. The petty drama, the back-and-forth of who could hurt each other more severely. At some point, everything they didn't want out on the line was going to be out on the line.

Unless one of the two caved.

And, as Rebecca Eaves found herself knocking on the all-too-familiar door of Kennedy Abrams' apartment, she felt like she was the one caving.

"Who is it?" A voice called from inside the apartment after Rebecca's third knock. She couldn't tell it if was Lyla or Rian.

"It's Rebecca!" She called back.

Scuffling sounded on the other side of the door before it swung open to reveal Kennedy herself, with Lyla and Rian peeking out from behind her like they were scared of seeing if it were really Rebecca.

"What do you want?" Kennedy asked, her nose far too high in the air for someone who was on trial for murder.

"Can we talk inside?"

"What do you want?" Kennedy repeated.

"Can we talk inside?" Rebecca repeated as well, narrowing her eyes. She knew it had been a mistake to come here.

"I'm going to shut this door and call the cops if you don't explain yourself."

"Fine." Rebecca shook her head and turned around, "Your father came to visit me, but I guess you don't want to hear about that."

Kennedy's eyes widened just a bit before she took a step back.

"Alright. Come in."

Rebecca paused, her back to Kennedy. She could leave. She could continue their drama and be the one to hit the next blow.

But she didn't. She turned around and walked into Kennedy's apartment for the first time in weeks. Because Rebecca Eaves, try as she might, could not resist having Kennedy Abrams be even the tiniest bit proud of her.

"So, what did my father want?" Kennedy asked, the two girls situated in the living room.

"He and Lydia came to visit me yesterday. They said they want you to go down for this."

Kennedy's expression remained stony, but Rebecca swore she saw a hint of disappointment in the other girl's eyes.

"They asked if I would help them."

"And I'm sure you said yes or jumped up and down with joy at the prospect of ruining me further."

"Would you just let me talk?" Rebecca snapped, "I'm not going to do it. I came here to let you know that I'm not going to do it, but that your dad is kind of, like, actively working against you. And you're stepmother's a bitch. I don't like that word, but she is."

"Yeah, she is."

"And another thing," Rebecca continued, "I came here because I felt like you were being slut shamed and victim blamed and all that by your parents, and you deserved to know. I didn't come here because I like you."

"Fair enough," Kennedy shrugged, "But I think you should do it."

Rebecca's mouth hung open as if she were about to say something and then decided against it.

"I'm assuming he asked you to do some digging on me? Give him intel on how I acted after the accident? Random shit that would be easy for you to do?"

Rebecca nodded slowly, still silent.

"Alright. Then do it. Give him information on me. And figure out what he wants."

"He wants information on you, I already—"

"No." Kennedy shook her head adamantly, "He wants something more from this. Hank was his friend, but he never talked about my dad. I figured it was because it would be awkward to talk about your mistress' father with her, but hey, we talked about weirder shit. My father hates me, but he wouldn't be trying this hard if there wasn't something else going on." She leaned forward on the couch until her nose was practically touching Rebecca's, "So, find out what he wants."

Rebecca took a deep breath as the slight butterflies in her stomach settled down and she reminded herself that she liked guys, and physically hated the girl in front of her.

"Why would I do that for you? It was nice enough of me to come here and warn you at all. You tried to pin a murder on me and cut me off of the Drew Parley account—"

"Well, you ensured that the account went down in flames anyway, huh? That stupid magazine article and you exposing everything—"

"This is really making me want to help you."

"Fine." Kennedy leaned back again, crossing her arms and flipping her hair over the other shoulder, "Don't help me. But now that I've put the idea in your head, you're gonna be dying over it until you look into my father."

"I will not," Rebecca retorted, knowing full well that was a lie, "I'm going to be just fine without you or your deranged little family."

She turned to walk away before Kennedy spoke again.

"What if I told you what really happened with Hank?"

Rebecca stopped walking. She held her composure with her back to Kennedy, reminding herself that getting these answers wouldn't do much for her. They wouldn't change what had happened. They would only help solidify why she shouldn't help Kennedy in the first place.

Against her better judgement, Rebecca turned around.

"I'm listening."

A/N: Thoughts so far?