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October 1st, 1989
“What are you wearing?” JD questioned as he watched his girlfriend hurry out of her house on Monday morning, viewing her strange outfit up and down.
Veronica frowned. “Why, do you not like it?” she asked, looking down at her clothes. She was wearing something he’d never seen her in before; a gray skirt, black leggings, white sneakers, and a light blue cardigan. Veronica loved that cardigan; it was her favorite thing to wear in the fall, cozy and warm and pretty as it was. She hadn’t worn it yet, this year.
“No, I do,” JD reassured, grabbing the strap of Veronica’s backpack to pull her closer to him, which made her giggle, “it’s just… not very Heather of you.”
Veronica’s stomach flipped a bit at the name he’d thrown around so casually, but she didn’t show it. Instead, she gave a playful grin.
“Yeah, well. I don’t think I have to worry about that anymore.” She said, the smirk he gave her after making her feel strangely exhilarated.
“Yet another perk.” JD noted, and Veronica smiled back while trying not to show how badly the comment sat with her. “Are you wearing that to the funeral later? Please, please, please wear it to the funeral.”
“I can’t, JD.” Veronica reasoned around a chuckle. “I have to wear black, remember? It’d be disrespectful.”
“Still don’t see the problem.” JD said casually, giving a shrug. “Heather Chandler would gladly wear red to a funeral.” Veronica shoved at his chest, and he grinned as he caught her hand.
“Stop being such a dick.” she laughed, giving only minimal effort in trying to release her hand.
He grinned. “Only for you, Darling.”
She didn’t wear the cardigan to the funeral. But she did wear it right until they entered the cemetery, if only to see JD smirk and tell her she looked like his favorite rebel in the world.
December 24th, 1989
Christmas Eve. The day that, for most people, meant comfort and joy. Meant snowy streets and houses glowing with lights and green trees inside living rooms and hot chocolates with enough marshmallows to make you feel sick in the best way. To most people, Christmas Eve marked the beginning of a widely loved holiday; it marked happiness and coziness and magical bliss.
To Veronica, Christmas Eve marked a month since the day she’d watched her ex-boyfriend go up in flames.
In the past month, she’d looked fine from the outside. She was given a week off of school to grieve, but when she was back, she seemed as good as ever; she studied her ass off (because she’d be dammed if she let four deaths ruin her college goals), she had Martha and Heather McNamara to sit with at lunch, she ate and she laughed and she smiled. To the unsuspecting students of Westerberg High, Veronica was okay. But those who knew her, really knew her, knew she was still struggling.
Her parents heard her at night, waking up crying from frequent nightmares. Martha had seen her a week ago at the mall, locking herself in a bathroom because the sound of a Christmas Cracker sounded too much like a gun. Mac had accidentally stumbled upon pages of her diary, furiously ripped and shoved hastily into a desk drawer. But even they didn’t know the full extent of it all; Veronica refused to tell them. She refused to go to therapy, refused to take insomnia pills, refused to miss school for a chance to rest. She promised she was fine; she was healing in her own way. She promised she just missed him, the dear boy she loved. That lie, the one she’d spouted off almost every day since November 24th, still hadn’t stopped feeling acidly sour on her tongue.
Because she didn’t miss him. He was all she could think of, all the time, but she didn’t miss him. How could she? This boy, with his sequin smile and his sensual politics, had left her a mess. He’d drawn stars on all of her, circled and highlighted every scar, and now he was gone and she was bleeding out.
Jason Dean had broken her.
He’d broken her, wholly and fully, leaving her a muddle of a person that had no idea what to do with herself.
But of course, she couldn’t tell anyone. Because while JD’s actions had left her broken, her own actions were arguably worse. When he died, she was left alone with her guilt; with the guilt of taking three people’s lives, weighing down on her like a too-heavy weight. She deserved so much worse, but for now she just had the crippling guilt. And she’d go to jail, if she told anyone about her true struggles. Like, actual jail. Veronica’s going to lady prison, as two of her ghost-companions liked to remind her sometimes; weirdly, they were her favorite of the ghosts.
Because those were another thing he’d left her with. The ghosts. Heather Chandler, Kurt Kelly, Ram Sweeny, and him. Jason Dean. She hoped they’d be gone by now, but no such luck; they lingered around, sometimes speaking to her through her brain and sometimes showing up in their full forms. One of them with blue liquid constantly leaking from her mouth, one with a gaping hole in his chest and another with a hole in his head, and one completely perfect. Untouched, unbroken. She wondered if he looked like that because he’d perished into thin air, when he died; the only remains of him that Veronica could see, after she witnessed him explode right in front of her, were pools of blood on the torched grass of the football field.
If those horrible images weren’t enough proof she was going insane, the ghosts sure were. And honestly, Veronica wasn’t surprised at how terrible she was doing. Most people said teenagers never thought of the consequences to their actions, but ever since she’d killed the demon queen of high school, Veronica knew the guilt would catch up to her eventually. She knew it, knew every way she’d suffer, even at her young age. She knew killing a person, or three (or four, a maddening voice in her head enjoyed reminding her), could make any girl lose her marbles. And she also knew that was probably the main reason she hadn’t left her house since Christmas break had started.
She hadn’t even tried, honestly. This past month had been hell for her; trying to navigate school with four voices in your head that occasionally materialized into people, one of which she couldn’t look at without wanting to cry, was downright impossible. Veronica had always been a bit frighteningly good at faking things; handwritings, friendships, suicide notes, feelings. She could fake feelings, like a pro even; she still cringed to herself when she thought of the day she’d faked indifference to Martha, if only to keep the poor innocent girl alive. But doing it for a month straight, faking smiles and faking appetite and faking sanity, all with little to no hours of sleep a day, was awfully draining.
And so, Veronica had spent the three days since her break had started cooped up in her house. Or her room, she should say; she only left occasionally to go to the bathroom or have a few bites of dinner with her parents, when they insisted she had to at least eat something. Hunger was the least of her worries at the moment, but she always ate about half a plate just to keep up some sort of appearance. She’d given up on trying to look perfect, but the least she could do was look stable to some degree.
To do that, she also needed to show her parents that she was still doing somewhat productive things, even while she was stuck inside the house. She made sure to look busy, halfway doing stuff she had no motivation for; on the first day, she’d organized a single pencil holder but presented it as organizing her desk. On the second, she’d ventured down to the living room and read exactly one and a half chapters of a book before going upstairs and not returning. On the third, she’d asked for help with one question in her math homework and didn’t touch it for the rest of the day. And on the fourth day, on Christmas Eve, she decided to clean just a hint of her closet.
She started on it shortly after she managed to drag herself out of bed, at around noon. She barely ever slept, in this past month, but most days she had no energy to get out of bed anyway. Still, today she managed to wake up and get dressed by noon (which was the earliest she’d managed since the break had started). She made sure to go downstairs, if only for a bit, to say good morning and announce her day’s plans to her parents. They seemed satisfied enough, and that made her hopeful they hadn’t heard her last night; the ghost of Heather Chandler had been pestering her in her dream, providing unimpressed commentary on flashbacks that made Veronica’s blood curdle, until she’d woken up in a cold sweat and screaming Don’t take the cup! at three in the morning. Unfortunately, not a rare occurrence.
So now, all she needed to do was fold a few sweaters, show them to whichever one of her parents came to check if she was “having fun” (still alive), and call it a day.
Veronica opened her closet, grabbed a pile of scattered items, and started folding. She’d always been a bit messy, but this past month her room had positively been in ruins; she could never find the energy to do anything about it. Even hanging up a jacket or putting her shoes in the closet felt like too much effort, most days. But now, she was folding. Slowly. She watched her fingers as they mechanically ran over the fabric of a t-shirt, then a hoodie, then a pair of jeans. The lack of speed didn’t make her any more accurate, though; she folded some items over and over again, stuck in this trance she was too tired to leave. By the time she’d folded three items, almost twenty-five minutes had passed and she felt about ready to go to back to bed.
Still, for the sake of appearances, she picked up a fourth item. She wasn’t sure what it was, that she was getting from the pile; it had a soft, knitted feel, but she was barely even looking at it. Until she felt something hard in the fabric, a kind of dried stain that she’d never taken off. Weird; before the whole… thing, she’d always made sure to take off stains. So, Veronica fully pulled the soft item from the pile and looked down at it. Then immediately dropped it, as if it was burning her fingers.
Because Veronica had pulled out a light blue cardigan.
With a bloodstain on its right sleeve.
November 24th, 1989
“Get off...” Veronica muttered to herself, scrubbing the sleeve she was running under the stream of water in the school bathroom. The one she’d half expected to see going up in flames mere hours ago. “Get off of me, JD.” She hissed, trying to rub his dried blood from her sleeve.
The sleeve should’ve been the least of her worries, she was very much aware of that. She looked like hell, as Heather Duke had oh-so affectionately let her know; hair wild and frizzy, face scratched, limping as she walked, thick black ash covering almost every surface of her body. She looked like a girl in shambles, and that was in no way far from the truth.
But she’d wash her hair later. And put a Band-Aid over the nasty, gaping scratch on her face. And her twisted ankle would heal in a few days. And she could clean off the ash at home. What she really needed to remove, what she couldn’t look at and couldn’t have anyone else looking at, either, was his blood on her sleeve.
She was surprised it was the only stain of it, actually. She had a hint of her own blood, over on her collar, but that didn’t count. With the way she’d brawled with him over that damn gun in the boiler room, fought over a weapon with the boy who used to say he worshiped her, she’d expected to have more blood on her. She’d not fought too badly, after all; she’d been a little frozen in shock at first, at how she could just lunge at him when he was holding a gun to her temple, but after he’d tried kissing her she was so consumed with anger she’d shoved him away and kneed him in the stomach.
She was infuriated, when he’d tried kissing her. Like he still had the right to. He’d tried killing her twice that day, for Christ’s sake; and he thought he could just kiss her?
(And she thought she could just kiss him back?)
She was still angry, fuming even. That was the reason she needed any remains of him off of her. That bloodstain, the one that she knew was his. When he’d perished, the bomb and half the grass of the field going with him (so much for a trigger bomb), she’d carefully walked over to a pool of his blood. She wasn’t sure what she’d been doing, to be honest, but she’d needed the confirmation. That he was truly gone. And that confirmation came quick; in the form of crimson red on the light blue sleeve of her favorite cardigan. Heather Chandler would approve, she’d though briefly.
But in the time that had passed since, the more she looked at the stain, the more it kept filling her with… things. Anger, sadness, nausea. She wanted it off, wanted to scrub him away from her and move on. And she was making progress; the water falling back into the sink as she wiped were soapy and red, but the stain made no sign of perishing any time soon.
“Soap’s not going to help you with that, you know.” Veronica heard a voice, and nearly jumped out of her skin at its familiarity before sighing. Just what she needed right now.
“I don’t need your advice at getting blood off.” She told JD, not looking at him.
“I probably have more experience than you, anyway.” He said coolly, and she saw his ghostly form jump onto the counter next to the sink.
She looked up, and there he was. Jason Dean, dead but unscathed in her mind’s eye. It annoyed her even further; why was he, of all the ghosts, perfectly fine? He was the one who deserved not to be, in her opinion.
“Will you go away if I sprayed you with water?” she asked, nowhere near joking. She wanted him gone. “Is this like a wicked witch of the east situation?”
“West, darling.” JD reminded her. She rolled her eyes. “And no, I don’t think so.” He pulled his legs up, clearly not going anywhere. “Why do you want to get rid of me so bad, anyway?” Veronica groaned, beyond frustrated, and let go of her sleeve.
“Take a wild guess.” She bit out.
“I just wanted to see you again, you know.” JD told her, and his fake sad voice made her wish he were alive so she could watch him explode again. “No need to be so irritated. Plus, I’m probably much better company than Heather Chandler, isn’t that right?”
“God, do you ever stop lying?” Veronica snapped, her throat closing up on her. She refused to clear it before she continued. Refused to give him the satisfaction. “You didn’t want to see me, JD. You wanted to torment me. You wanted to see how badly I was doing without you. Because our love is God, right?” the words made her want to vomit. She’d been so stupid.
“Well, then I’m doing terrible.” She continued, intently staring down at the sink, hoping he might leave if he saw how much looking at him pained her. “I’m awful, okay? You got what you wanted. Now can’t you just, for once, not make me wish I’d been the one exploding? Please?” her voice cracked at the end, and she wanted to rip her vocal chords off.
JD didn’t say anything, for a moment. She felt him jump off the counter, his black boots showing up in her line of sight. One of them got close to her foot, as if trying to gently nudge it, but the touch phased right through her. Well, at least he really was gone. And she wasn’t going to look up at him, no matter how many nudges he tried.
“This isn’t what I wanted.” He said finally, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. And then, the boots faded away and took him along with them.
Veronica didn’t put her sleeve under the tap again. Instead, she brought it to cover her face as she cried.
She abandoned the closet cleaning the second she found that cardigan, pretty much, and she hadn’t let go of it since. It had been a while; she wasn’t sure how long, nor did she care. But now she was sitting on her bed, clutching that sleeve like it was her most prized possession. And also like she was trying to make it explode.
She stared at it, at that damn bloodstain, all the while. Ever since she’d found it, not one minute of her day had been spent with red blood not in her field of vision. She couldn’t stop looking at it, as much as it pained her.
That bloodstain was like a mark; a mark he’d left on her. Some kind of proof that she’d never be rid of him, not fully. Proof that him, leaving like his mother had, truly ruined her life. That he’d forever linger on her, like a tattoo kiss she’d never wanted. That he’d haunt her, haunt every what-if she tortured herself with during sleepless nights for the rest of her days. That the smell of smoke she’d always associated with him, cigarette smoke and gun smoke and bomb smoke, would forever make her cry. That she could curse him, for the longest time, but it’d make no difference; he’d marked her with his blood, and that was it. She was stuck with him now; with this boy she should never have even spoken to.
“Ew, what’s that?” Veronica heard a disgusted voice. She’d stopped being startled by the sudden voices long ago.
“It’s a cardigan.” She said simply, still looking at it. “Nothing important. Leave it alone, Heather.”
She heard Heather Chandler scoff. “You think you can lie to me, Ronnie? I’m inside your brain.” Veronica groaned, irritated. When she looked up Heather was smirking, droplets of blue liquid dripping off her lips and vanishing into the air.
“So, why are you cuddling your sweater?” Heather asked again.
Veronica sighed. “Cardigan.” She corrected.
“And what is a cardigan if not the ugliest form of a sweater?” Heather asked, and Veronica snorted. Heather wasn’t so bad, sometimes; she always acted the same. In the beginning, Veronica had figured Heather would try to wreck her life for killing her. And while she was mean, she was exactly the same mean that she’d been in her time on earth. Veronica appreciated it, more than she thought she would.
“I just haven’t seen it in a long time.” Veronica explained. When Heather raised her eyebrows, she looked back down at the stain.
“That must be a nightmare to get off.” Heather noted, and Veronica looked up to see the ghost had teleported next to her. She did that, sometimes; Veronica would find it cool if it wasn’t so annoying. “So, whose is it?”
“What?”
Heather rolled her eyes. “I’m not blind, Veronica. This is obviously blood.” She said condescendingly, as if Veronica was an idiot to try and deny it. “And while your hygiene lately had been truly awful, I’m sure you’ve never used an item of clothing as a pad. So, which of you and Jesse James’s victims have remained on that sweater?”
Veronica sighed, realizing she couldn’t hide it from Heather any longer. “It’s Jesse James himself, actually.” She said, grateful at the opportunity to not use his name. “It’s his blood.”
“No shit.” Heather said, her voice quiet. Veronica would’ve called it sympathetic if she didn’t know better. “Is that why you’re cuddling it?”
Veronica was silent for a beat, stroking the stained fabric between two of her fingers. It made a chill run down her spine.
“I guess.” She said eventually.
Heather nodded. “How very.” She stated simply, and Veronica scoffed. She hated that phrase. Heather waited a beat, watching as Veronica rubbed the dried blood between her fingers over and over again.
“You know it’s not worth it, right?” she said eventually.
Veronica didn’t turn to her. “What’s not worth it?”
“That cardigan.” Heather stated. “It’s ugly. And it’s not worth torturing yourself over.” She continued, one ghostly, manicured finger running over the fabric she couldn’t touch if she tried. “Seriously, it’s pathetic.” She added, just for good measure.
Veronica did turn to look at her then, the look on the ghost’s face more meaningful than she’d ever seen it. She sighed, viewing the bloodstain she’d never be able to let go of. The mark he’d left on her, the one making sure she’d never forget him.
“Yeah.” She stated, the blood mixing into the fabric in her gradually blurring vision. “I know.”
October 25th, 1989
Veronica hated Kurt Kelly. And Ram Sweeny. And Heather Duke. And Heather McNamara. God, she hated them all so much. How could they do this? Veronica wasn’t surprised at Kurt and Ram, if she was honest, but the Heathers? And here she’d been dumb enough to think they were her friends, while they were busy starting rumors on her cheating on her boyfriend with the two most disgusting guys at Westerberg High.
Why were they such megabitches?
Veronica had left school by fourth period. It wasn’t hard to sneak out; she’d forged herself a note from the nurse about not feeling well, showed it to the guard at the gate, and bolted home. Her parents were at work, anyway, and if they came back early, she could say one of her classes was cancelled.
She felt like throwing up as she dragged herself up to her room and slipped on her favorite, most comforting cardigan, the words “swordfight” and “freak” and “slut” running through her brain all the while. All those words everyone had whispered as she’d walked down the hallways, as JD had tried and failed at punching Kurt and Ram for her. At fighting for her. She hadn’t seen him as she left; she hoped he was okay. He’d taken quite a few hits.
It wasn’t long before she found out. Barely an hour had passed since she’d gotten home, since she’d been curled into light blue fabric while lying on her bed and furiously scribbling in her diary, when a knock came at her window. She smiled despite her miserable state, knowing it could only be one person. And sure enough, when she went to unlock the window, JD was waiting. He had this nasty cut on his lip, and she could see the start of black eye on the left side of his face. Her smile dropped when she noticed how hurt he was, and she cringed as she let him inside.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?” she asked immediately, hating how choked up her voice sounded. She’d been holding it in since eight in the morning; she could keep doing it. She wasn’t going to cry over this.
JD didn’t respond. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest; she sighed, the familiar smell of smoke and sugar and cologne like heaven to her nose as he rested his chin on top of her head.
“Yeah.” He said eventually, and Veronica was relived as she buried her head into his chest. “Are you?” She didn’t have to answer him, since the comfort of his touch was enough for her to start sobbing.
“I’m fine.” She insisted anyway, voice muffled into his shirt. “I’m awesome.”
“That’s what you said this morning.” JD reminded her, his arms tightening protectively around her. She kind of couldn’t breathe, but she kind of didn’t want to so it was okay.
“Then I’m about the same.” She said, knowing the whining in her voice showed that she was very much not fine or awesome.
So, yeah. About the same.
“Hey,” JD started, pulling away from her just slightly, “look at me.” She did, gazing up with what she was sure were the puffiest, reddest eyes he’d ever seen. Especially when his gaze hardened as he watched her, like he couldn’t stand to see her like this. She didn’t want him to not be able to look at her; to feel bad when he did.
“I’ll take care of this, okay?” he assured. Just like he had this morning, when he’d told her Kurt and Ram wouldn’t make her cry anymore. That they wouldn’t be able to; that he’d end it all. Tonight. Veronica didn’t know what that meant, and it sounded a little off, but this was JD. He wouldn’t hurt her.
“I love you.” She told him now, burying her head back into his shirt when she couldn’t stand to look at the intense sadness in his eyes anymore. Sadness for her.
“I love you too.” He said, giving a kiss to her temple. She damn near melted, his touch always having that effect on her. “Our love is God, Sawyer. Always remember it.” She giggled softly, and when she pulled away from him, he was smiling. She liked that expression far more than the sadness and pity.
His hands, still holding her waist, started bunching up the fabric of her cardigan and releasing it. Again and again, like it was some sort of fidget.
“You love that sweater, huh?” he asked her, feeling the soft fabric between his fingers. Veronica shrugged, giving a coy smile.
“It’s cozy.” She explained simply, bringing a hand to run over his chest. “Want me to take it off?” she murmured, the smile turning into more of a smirk. JD smirked right back at her.
“Easy, tiger.” He teased, making her giggle even as she raised her eyebrows. “We need to do something first.”
“Oh?” she questioned, fingers tapping on his t-shirt. “Like what?” JD caught her hand, and she almost shivered when he started making little circles over her fingers.
“Do you have Kurt or Ram’s phone numbers?” he asked. Veronica furrowed her eyebrows.
“What?”
“I told you I’d take care of it, remember?” JD said again, and Veronica nodded. How could she forget, after all? Especially with that… wording.
JD stopped tracing over her fingers, and instead intertwined them with his. She let him lower their hands, as long as he was still holding on. She never wanted him to let go, she thought.
“Veronica,” he started, looking into her eyes; she hoped they weren’t so red anymore. “Do you trust me?”
Veronica nodded. “Yes.” She stated, zero hesitation in her tone.
JD grinned. “Good.”
Her cardigan did come off, later; when she still trusted him. But when it came back on, right before dawn the next day, and the fabric of its collar was bunched up once again, this time by JD’s hand forcefully holding around her neck at a cemetery with two unburied bodies on the ground, she didn’t trust him all that much anymore.
She never should’ve.
The rest of Veronica’s day was, to the untrained eye, boring. Once Heather had left her, she didn’t have much to do other than lay in her bed and stare at the sleeve, letting her own thoughts consume her until she wanted to scream. It was how she’d been spending most of her free time lately; horrible for her health, clearly, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything else.
Veronica had been feeling permanently tired, all month. Not a numb kind of tired, but an exhausted one; she was still crying, still getting nightmares, but she wanted it to just end already. She shouldn’t be this tortured over him, over this boy she loved and hated; it was like Heather had said. Not worth it.
And yet, Veronica spent another afternoon tormenting herself. Laying in her bed with flashbacks running through her mind, internally beating herself up for being as dumb as she was. For letting him mark her, the way that he had; the same way the bloodstain marked her cardigan. An obvious sign of not moving on. Never moving on. As long as the dried, impossible to get off blood stained the light blue fabric, JD stained Veronica.
And yet, she hadn’t tried cleaning it once since the pep rally.
She didn’t even go back downstairs, that evening. She locked her bedroom door, and insisted to her parents that she wasn’t hungry. But it’s Christmas eve, they told her. Exactly, she wanted to yell.
But she didn’t. She just hugged the cardigan closer to her chest, shut her light off, and wrapped herself up in her blanket. She didn’t know what time it was, but she was so drained it might as well have been three in the morning again. Maybe this was all a nightmare, she thought briefly. She then ran the hardened stain between her fingers again, and sighed. It felt far too real for her liking.
She shut her eyes, prepared for a string of horrible thoughts to invade her mind and make it impossible to fall asleep. No thoughts came, for a few moments; but then a voice did.
“Why are you sleeping?” the all too familiar voice asked. Veronica bit her lip, holding back an exasperated groan. Just what she needed today. “It’s not even eight yet.”
“I’m tired.” She responded, not in the mood to explain herself further to her least favorite ghost.
“You should eat, you know.” JD continued, and she let out a bitter scoff. Ignoring her completely, as usual. “It’s not good to go to bed without any dinner.”
“Thanks for the input.” Veronica bit, too tired to face him but turning anyway. The sight of him infuriated her; she could see him too clearly, even in the dark. “Did your mom teach you that?”
JD’s face fell for a moment, his expression hardening in a way she recognized, and a terrifying mix of regret and satisfaction settled in her stomach.
“Not in the mood. Got it.” JD muttered, and she wanted to laugh because no shit.
She kept watching him, expecting him to vanish any minute, but he watched her right back. In fact, he was looking down at something; Veronica wasn’t sure what, but she wanted him to stop. She wanted him to go. Back when he was alive, she used to feel empty when he was gone; now she felt empty all the time. And he was only making it worse, because he had that missing piece of her. He had it, and was refusing to give it back.
“Are you hugging a sweater?” he asked her eventually, not getting how not in the mood she truly was. Well, now she at least knew what he was looking at.
“It’s a cardigan.” She corrected, unsure why.
JD made his way to her in big, quiet, ghostly strides. He bent down to her level, inspecting the fabric in her hands. She hugged it closer to herself, protective.
“That’s the one you wore-“
“Yes.” She cut him off, not interested in talking about the worst day of her life with the boy who’d perished at that exact day. “It is.”
JD nodded. He traced a finger over the cardigan, but phased right through it; Veronica jerked it out of his way, regardless. He didn’t deserve to touch it. He didn’t deserve to touch anything that was hers.
He didn’t respond to her sudden movement. Not with his face, anyway. But he stood, and she was relieved that he was far from her again. She used to want him close, all the time; now, that thought made her blood curdle.
“I think it was my favorite outfit of yours.” JD said, his tone sealed enough to let Veronica know he was lying. She wasn’t sure why, and honestly, she didn’t want to be. “The cardigan.” He continued anyway.
“No it wasn’t.” was all she said before she turned away from him, clutching the cardigan to her chest and holding the stain between her fingers.
JD didn’t reappear for the rest of her sleepless night.