Hope sucks sometimes. It gnaws at your energy until you're left drained. It takes and it takes and it takes—a parasite leaving you empty.

I should've known my mother didn't call. I should've known I wouldn't meet her today.

Not ever.

Henry's plan was a desperate grasp at something too good to be true. I should've known it wouldn't work. I should've listened to Mary Margaret and David. They tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn't budge. I was too blind. Blinded by the thought of meeting my parents. My mother.

Who's living in the fantasy world now?

I hike the flight of steps up to the apartment. Each lift of my feet—each movement I make weighs the rest of me down, dragging me further into a realm of desolation. All I want is to sink into a puddle on the floor and cascade down the stairs as a waterfall of never-ending tears.

The moment I enter the apartment, I want to take a long, hot shower to erase the mud from my body. I won't look in the mirror when I get to the bathroom. I don't want to see the God-forsaken mess life made me. I must look like a missing camper who's finally found her way out of the woods.

With a twist of the knob, the door creaks open to reveal Emma shoving my belongings into my duffel bag on the dining table. Before she makes another trip to my room, she stops short, as if struck by an unseen force, and shoots me a piercing scowl—one I haven't seen from her yet.

She storms into my room in a hot fury.

"What are you doing with my stuff?" I demand, following her, my skin smoking from the unexpected violation.

Emma fumes out before I reach the room and passes me, a bundle of my clothes clenched in her hand. "I should have you charged for negligent and underage driving," she says, stuffing my new sweaters into the duffel bag without worrying about snagging them.

"We talked about the car chase. You said you'd leave me off with a—"

"I'm not talking about the car chase," she retorts, pivoting to face me. "I'm talking about when you drove Henry in your getaway car."

"Getaway car? I don't know what you think of me, but I'm not a criminal."

"I have witnesses who'd argue otherwise."

"What is going on here?" I ask, though it's as much a question to myself as to her.

"You intentionally crashed your car with my kid in the front seat. He could've been killed."

"You're overreacting, okay? I backed the car up. It was a rear-end collision. Your son is fine." Why does this keep happening? Emma's my friend one moment, and the next, she hates my guts. I understand the maternal worrying, but she needs to learn to let go a bit. Henry wasn't injured. Why is this such a big deal? And how does she know?

"Are you fucking kidding me? I don't care which part of your car got hit. The fact is—it crashed. With you behind the wheel." She storms past me, retreating back to my room, and reemerges with my guitar—my baby—clutched in her fist. The sight of her gripping its neck ignites a match within me, and that match bursts into raging flames that tickle my insides.

"You want to talk about negligence? Fine. How about when you were so negligent your son skipped town to find me?"

Emma's eyes blaze with a vengeance.

"Tell me. How long did it take for you to realize he was gone?"

She extends the guitar toward me. "Pack up the rest of your things, get out of this apartment, and don't ever come back. And stay away from my son." Her words plunge a dagger into my heart.

Is this what it is to be betrayed? When you least expect it? The skin goes cold, hair falls limp, limbs weigh extra, intestines tighten?

I want to cry, but I'm stronger than that—I've always been. I have to be. I'm a survivor. But how am I supposed to survive through this?

Emma's demand leaves me dumbfounded. Leaving the apartment means leaving this family—leaving my friends. Leaving the apartment means sleeping in my car, but I no longer have a car. I don't have anywhere to go except back to the foster home. I've held out for as long as possible, clinging to every last idea. My parents aren't here, so why am I? What's keeping me here?

"You can't kick me out," I say, shaking my head. And it's true. She can't. Not only does she not have the power, but I remember why I'm still here—to get my DNA test results. I need to stay in Storybrooke for at least until then. After that, she can kick me out, but not now. Not when I'm so close. "This is Mary Margaret's apartment."

"I can kick out whoever I want. I live here, too." The one thing I know Emma hates is being wrong. Classic characteristic of a perfectionist.

"It's 'whom.'"

She sucks a breath through her nose. "Did you just correct my grammar?"

"You're mad at me? You kicked me out!"

"I can kick out whomever I want, especially if they're a murderer."

Air catches in my throat. How does she know? Did she research me with her bail-bonds tactics? If she thinks I'm a...what she said, then she didn't do a thorough job.

The word lingers in the space around us. It sets the room on fire and burns without reason. I breathe smoke. I need air—oxygen. Saliva deserts my throat. Water—I need water. I want to stop, drop, and roll in tears like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Returning from the depths of my mind, I find the courage and stamina to swallow. "What did you call me?"

"I know what you are. You pushed your best friend out the window at some out-of-control party. They let you go without so much of a trial."

"'Cause the neighbor's security camera proved I was innocent." But I say it like I'm guilty. I feel guilty, but I am innocent. I never pushed Chloe. She fell on her own.

The flashback seeps into my head.

The party. Finding her in that room with that guy. Shooing him out. The fight. The window. My lack of strength...The scream...The bracelet dangling from my hand...Her body crashing two stories down...Her blood on the pavement...

"Get the hell out of here and try not to kill anyone else."

I remove my guitar from Emma's hand. They should've put me in jail for what they said I did. Then, I wouldn't be experiencing this.

* * *

Before packing, I take my long, hot shower, triple shampooing to get all the mud out.

The scratch on my right cheek isn't deep, but it stretches across a considerable area, from the corner of my eye to the apple of my cheek.

I throw on a white T-shirt and wide-legged jeans and tie my hair into a tight braid draping over my left shoulder. The goal? Make my outfit scream, "No one accused of murder here." Though, I kind of went in the opposite direction, so I scrap it and take on this new persona Emma created.

A black ribbon from a junk drawer becomes a makeshift choker. I go heavy on the makeup, creating thick winged eyeliner atop smoky brown eyeshadow. A shade of berry lipstick finalizes the transformation.

At first, I thought investing extra time into my appearance was a distraction tactic, but it was more about delaying my departure.

I confront my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, the first thought being that my scratch is still visible through my makeup. The second thought is a surprise. My makeup routine has always leaned toward the natural, but there's something intriguing about this edgier version staring back at me. I kind of like it. I don't want to be myself. I want to be this confident, cool girl in the mirror. I should have some time before I die.

I zip my duffel bag once I'm done. It was deflated when I arrived here, but all the new clothes plump it up. I might want to pick up a suitcase. Maybe the next time I go to a town full of supposed fairytale characters.

Before I leave the room, I place a pair of sunglasses on my head and slip on an olive utility jacket. Why wear sunglasses at night? To tell people to keep walking without having to say, "Keep walking." Let them think I have a black eye—I don't care.

My duffel bag hangs across my shoulder, my guitar in my hand. In a way, this feels like I'm heading off to college, except I don't know where I'm heading off to. I'm once again a stupid feather with no destination.

I take a deep breath in the mirror, then exit the room that is no longer mine.

Emma sits at the dining table without a care in the world, except she isn't. She never stops caring. She only stopped caring for me, if she ever did. "Got everything?" she says over tea.

I nod, but I left Chloe's charm bracelet on the nightstand. I don't want the reminder anymore.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Emma says when I get to it, but I let it hit the back of my boot.

I'll never tell her it was on purpose.

* * *

Not knowing where to go, I amble along Main Street's sidewalk. People stare at me. Some glare and scowl. Fear laces other faces. Their reactions vary from hastening their steps to retreating into shops, pretending to have forgotten something.

How does everyone know what happened? How do they know about Chloe? Did Emma find out first? Did someone else? I'm almost tempted to grab another copy of the paper to see if Delilah was telling the truth about not writing an article about me. Maybe it's hidden inside rather than on the front page. But for some reason, I believe her.

I lower my sunglasses to avoid eye contact. Seeking refuge at Granny's for much-needed coffee flits across my mind, but people will be there. I'm not a fan of people. They, like hope, have a knack for sucking the life out of you. The café's another option, but Delilah might be there. Is there anywhere else where a girl can get coffee around here?

As I reach the corner of the clocktower, I pivot toward the brick building across the street, the same one where Doctor Hopper's office resides. At the corner of the structure is a drugstore with a sign for The Rabbit Hole protruding from its side. The sign depicts a creepy, human-like white rabbit emerging from a black hole, its almond-shaped eyes eerie slits. Maybe it's supposed to be drunk? Squinting from the sunlight?

Maybe I should...Should I? I wanted to before. Could it hurt? I'm dying either way.

After battling my thoughts, I head toward the red door below the rabbit sign. To the left, a chalkboard bears the message:

ＴＯＮＩＴＥ

１/２ ｐｒｉｃｅ

Ｂｏｉｌｅｒｍａｋｅｒｓ

Whatever the hell that is. Maybe it's beer made in a boiler.

Above the chalkboard, a sign says, "Downstairs," with an arrow leading the way.

One drink. At the most, two. I can do it. What's a little poison when you're already dying?

I step up, shifting my sunglasses to the crown of my head, and push the door open. The interior is dim, but the staircase is right before me. I descend, following the crescendo of music and chatter that grows louder with each step. At the base of the stairs, a pink hallway stretches before me. I continue toward the sounds until I reach double doors adorned with stained glass panes. One door is open, inviting me into the bar.

While the corridor's well-lit, the bar's interior embraces darkness for ambiance. Cherry-stained furniture populates the room, contrasted by the white light fixtures. The back bar has wooden arches that curve around glass shelves laden with various liquors, all against a mirrored wall.

I locate an unoccupied booth and slide my stuff in before settling beside my duffel. Soon after, a waiter appears.

"What can I get for you, Miss?" I like being a Miss. It feels grown-up.

Then it hits me. I don't know many names of alcoholic beverages. Nor do I know which ones are beginner-friendly. "Something mild, please—Not too strong."

His gaze narrows, skepticism evident. "How old are you, Miss?"

"Twenty-one."

"May I see your ID?" Oh, shit.

I bite my tongue, searching for a solution.

"She's with me." Motherfucker. Can't a girl sit alone with her misery?

I glance up to see Tinker Bell helping herself to the opposite side of my table. She's brought two glasses of something with her.

"She's twenty-one. You can trust me," she reassures the still-doubtful waiter. With his departure, Tinker Bell slides a glass across the table to me.

"What is it?"

"A boilermaker. I saw you come in and thought we could talk."

"About what? You recruiting younger bodies? 'Cause I'm not interested."

"No, and Ruby explained what you said." She leans over and says in a hushed tone, "I would never. I have something called 'dignity.'"

"So your name really is Tinker Bell?"

"Of course it is," she says without shame, "but you can call me Tink. So how are you holding up?" How am I holding up? I feel like crap.

"I'm fine," I reply. "Why'd you buy me a drink?"

"Believe it or not, we were friends in Neverland. When you remembered, that is."

Raising the glass, I stare at the liquid, contemplating whether I should drink it.

"It's beer with a shot of whiskey." Oof.

I take the tiniest sip—if that—and spit it back into the glass. It's way too alcoholic. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

"It's not for everyone," Tink acknowledges.

"No kidding," I say, then spit into the glass again to rid my mouth of the taste. Unsuccessful. "Can I get a water over here?" I say, flagging a waiter.

"Are you truly okay?" Tink says, folding her arms on the table's edge.

"I just need some water."

"I mean about what people are saying. About you." Emma's accusations and people's stares seeded suspicions in my mind about what Storybrooke might be whispering behind my back, but I'm unsure if they're connected. Is this about Henry or Chloe? Both?

"What are they saying?" I ask, my heart racing.

The waiter sets a glass of water on the table, using a branded napkin as a coaster.

"That you pushed your friend out a window, and she died," Tink says, her voice laced with concern. "I know you, and that can't be true."

I take a sip of water. "It's partially true."

"Isa—"

"Just call me Bella."

"Bella...what happened?"

"I don't know what you think, but we're not friends. I'm not about to spill my life story to a stranger."

She withdraws her arms from the table and sits back. "It's quite sad you think that. Have you truly forgotten everything?"

"Hmm," I say, pretending to ponder. "Did you once leave a dollar under my pillow?"

"Come on, Bella. That's Tulip's job, not mine."

I roll my eyes and drink some more water. "I didn't push her," I say, not looking at her. "She fell."

"I believe you."

My eyes turn to hers. "You do?"

"I know you. You wouldn't have done it." Alright, who is this woman? Like Hook, she acts as though she knows everything about me. What else does she "know?" How is she certain I didn't throw Chloe out the window? It's not every day a fairy stops by and talks about my past. I need to find out more, but I have no idea how to approach her without seeming suspicious.

Ah, to hell with seeming suspicious! She knows things, and I need to know them, too.

"What else do you know about me?"

"Snow is your favorite thing in the world." Second. My favorite thing in the world is—

"Next to music, of course." Whoa. She's got my attention now. I don't believe she's Tinker Bell, and I doubt we have a Neverland connection, but she's proven herself worthy of sitting across from me. Though, she could be a stalker who's researched my interests on social media. However, a girl this rough around the edges doesn't exactly scream "stalker," especially when she's wearing a nature fairy costume and a vial of dust around her neck.

"Who's spreading these rumors?" I say, leaning forward. "I haven't made one enemy, except Regina, but she's enemies with everyone."

"I'm not certain. I heard it from Leroy." Leroy. I forgot about him. Is he really still mad at me for almost hitting him with my car? It's been days. "The other one I heard from Ruby."

My posture perks up, and my head tilts to the side. "What other one?"

"About how you almost killed Henry in a car accident." Henry. Why didn't I think of this sooner? Only Henry and I know about the incident—or at least we were. I never uttered a word. Why would he? For what?

He must've told Emma. Or Regina, who then informed Emma. And then it spread all over town like wildfire. Who sent the first spark outside those three—who's to know? But someone did, and someone's going to pay.

Starting with Henry.