He Deserved It

CHAPTER 22 – Ghost Handle

Savannah had perfected the art of presence. Hand lightly resting on her mother’s elbow. Shoulders relaxed but regal. Eyes calm, voice measured. Her dress was sleek sage-green silk, skimming just above the knee—the kind of dress that said I belong here without shouting it.

It was technically a fundraiser for Arroyo Mesa Public Arts. But to her parents, it might as well have been a press junket.

Deidra Parker’s heels clicked out a practiced rhythm beside her as she leaned in and whispered, “Chin up, sweetie. Good posture softens your jawline.”

Savannah nodded. Smiled—a soft smile, not toothy. The kind that photographed well. The kind that wouldn’t get picked apart later.

Inside the civic center, string lights dangled overhead like overpriced intentions. Her dad, Councilman Walter Parker, shook hands with men who still remembered his high school football stats like they were relevant. Her mother posed near the silent auction table as if she lived there full-time.

Savannah floated from conversation to conversation. Praised the bruschetta. Nodded at donors. Made polite jokes. And kept half an eye on her own reflection in every pane of glass, just to check if she was still holding the shape of herself.

Control was a second skin. Problem is, even second skin can itch.

Eventually, she drifted toward the edges of the crowd, needing a moment where no one expected her to laugh at the right places.

Which, naturally, led her to the lemonade table.

It had to happen at the lemonade table.

Savannah reached for a glass, fingers curved just so around the stem, when a woman in designer sunglasses and coral lipstick leaned in close enough that Savannah could smell her expensive floral perfume—and the faint whiff of gossip on her breath.

“Didn’t you date that boy? The one from that prom thing?”

Savannah blinked once. Smooth and slow. “I’m sorry?”

The woman let out a brittle little laugh, the kind that sounded like it could cut your cheek if you got too close. “Oh, maybe I’m thinking of someone else. It was all over Snapchat for a while. Rough night.”

Savannah’s smile barely shifted. Just enough to look polite. Harmless.

“Must’ve been someone else,” she said. Voice light as tissue paper. Inside, something coiled tight in her chest.

The woman turned away, still chuckling, probably already scanning the room for her next hit of drama.

Savannah set the lemonade back down, untouched.

Citrus and sugar weren’t enough to wash the taste out of her mouth anyway.

She took a slow breath. Straightened her shoulders.

Nothing to see here. Smile, glide, repeat.

Then she threaded her way back through the clusters of donors and polite laughter, heels clicking in perfect time with the music drifting from the speakers.

Back at the table, her mom was deep into a story about escrow drama, gesturing like escrow itself might appear to argue back. A man in a seersucker blazer nodded along, eyes glazed over but politely fixed on her mother’s lipstick.

Savannah tuned it out. Her salad sat untouched, its fancy microgreens wilting under the chandelier glow. She twisted the silver ring on her index finger until it nearly dug a groove into her skin.

Her dad leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, “Smile a bit more, Sav. You look disengaged.”

Savannah blinked. Once. Twice.

Because God forbid I look human for five seconds.

She pushed back her chair and stood, smoothing the front of her dress so no one could accuse her of leaving in a huff.

“Excuse me. Restroom.”

She slipped past the table, past clusters of conversations and the faint rustle of chiffon gowns. Kept her chin high. Counted her breaths.

Nobody follows a girl headed for the bathroom. It’s the one mercy in places like this.

The civic center bathroom was all marble and mirrors, and the sharp smell of lemon-scented soap, like money trying too hard.

Savannah locked the door to the handicap stall and sat on the closed toilet lid, heels perfectly balanced, palms flat against her knees.

She inhaled through her nose. Counted backward from ten.

I am composed. I am curated. I am not going to fall apart in a bathroom stall under fluorescent lights.

She pulled out her phone. i********:. A scroll of muscle memory.

She stared at the screen until her vision blurred, willing herself not to cry. She wasn’t the girl who cried in public bathrooms. She wasn’t.

“f**k,” she whispered. Just once. Soft enough the marble couldn’t echo it back.

She thought of the girls, of the fire bowl, of the four of them huddled over ash and secrets. We come back. Same week. Even if we’re different.

The words felt heavy in her chest. And suddenly, she didn’t want to be alone in the stall.

She opened the group chat.

The last message sat there like an unanswered dare: Hey… anyone home yet?

Lia. A day ago.

No replies. Not even a heart reaction.

Savannah stared at it for a few seconds, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

She could say something. Check in. Be brave. Or reckless. Same difference.

Instead, she locked her phone and slipped it back into her clutch.

Silence was safer. Even if it felt like losing.

She exhaled once, rolled her shoulders back, and checked her reflection in the mirror to make sure her expression was set to neutral.

Damage contained. Face on.

Then she stepped out of the stall, smoothed her dress, and wove her way back through the civic center’s echoing halls, heels striking the floor like a metronome.

Back at the table, her mom was laughing too loudly, her bracelet jangling like wind chimes every time she gestured.

Savannah sat. Smiled. Took a careful sip of wine she wasn’t technically old enough to drink, the stem of the glass cool and sharp between her fingers.

Her phone stayed face down on the table.

Because if you can’t see the notification, maybe it isn’t real. Right?

She wanted to believe it was a glitch. A random like. A slip of someone’s thumb.

But Savannah didn’t believe in glitches.

She believed in signals. In patterns. In people who said more with silence than with words.

And that like…

That was a message.

Loud and intentional.

She swallowed the thought, gathered up her clutch, and rose from the table.

Fresh air. Five minutes. Then back to perfect daughter mode.

Outside, the parking lot buzzed with expensive engines and conversations filtered through polite grins.

Savannah leaned against her mom’s Lexus. It was warm against her spine. She cranked her phone screen to max brightness, checked her notifications for the third time.

Nothing new. No follow-up messages. No error pop-ups screaming just kidding.

Just that single phantom like.

Like someone whispering: I remember. Do you?

She tapped her silver ring against the car door, steady and rhythmic.

She’d spent months talking herself into peace. Repeating that what they’d done was righteous. Necessary. Bigger than just her. And that it had worked.

But now, under the hum of distant engines, her certainty felt thin.

Because someone out there still cared enough to poke the ashes.

And Savannah knew one thing about ashes:

They stayed warm a long time.

She stood there for another moment, arms folded, staring out at the rows of shiny cars and perfect hedges, trying to decide if she felt angry or just tired.

Either way, no one needed to see it.

When her mom called out, “Ready to go, honey?” Savannah didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she stared at her screen one last time, as if the pixels might confess something they were hiding.

Nothing. Just her own reflection, faint in the glass.

She locked her phone. Slid it into her clutch.

Showtime.

Because that’s what Parkers did. Walk into the noise like nothing could touch them.

Even when something already had.