Violet Eyes

Chapter 3. Yaz.

“So, Zona, right?” Reagan asked, feigning interest as she turned her back to the girl. She busied herself stocking canned goods on a miniature wooden shelf atop the counter. “Is there anything else you'd prefer to be called?”

“Zona is fine, Miss Reagan,” the girl replied promptly. She stood behind the table, both hands wrapped tightly around the handle of a purple suitcase.

“Alright then, Zona. You go to school?”

“Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Eleventh.”

Reagan suddenly turned around, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the counter. She squinted at Zona, as if trying to see straight through her, to the murderer beneath the surface.

“How old are you, Zona?”

“I’m seventeen, Miss.”

Reagan’s eyebrows twitched slightly.

“Don’t look much like it.”

Zona said nothing. Spare me the trouble, she thought.

“Well, Zona, you can call me Yaz,” the woman said at last.

“Your room’s upstairs,” she added curtly. “It’s the guest bedroom, down the hall.”

Zona nodded but didn’t move. She was waiting for permission, even though she already knew what someone like Yazmine Reagan would say.

“Well, don’t just stand there—go up and unpack already. You don’t need my permission.”

Called it.

Zona placed the last folded T-shirt into the closet drawer and glanced around the room. A single bed, a closet, a small desk, and a wall mirror. It wasn’t much different from her mother’s house—plain, boring, dull.

She rolled the suitcase off the bed and zipped it shut.

Her eyes drifted to the desk. There sat a framed photo: Jenna Ankou and a seven-year-old Zona, smiling in a field of flowers. Her father had taken the picture.

She figured she needed at least one memory of her mother. Even if hatred still lingered, even if Jenna's presence still gnawed at her, she had to fake a little sadness for the loss.

And maybe—it wasn’t entirely fake.

Suddenly, footsteps creaked on the stairs outside. She stiffened.

The Police?

A knock followed—two light raps on the door.

“You decent?” Yaz’s voice came through, blunt as ever.

“Yes, ma’am,” Zona replied.

Yaz opened the door halfway and leaned against the frame. Her arms were crossed, her face unreadable.

“Just makin’ sure you’re not in here sulking or plotting to burn my house down.”

Zona blinked. “No, ma’am.”

Yaz gave a short laugh—more of a huff, really—before glancing over the room. “You’re neat. That’s good. I don’t like mess.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop ‘yes ma’am-ing’ me. I’m not a principal or a prison warden.” She paused. “Well. Not officially.”

Zona didn’t smile at that. But just barely…

Yaz stepped in and set something on the desk. A small plate—grilled cheese, apple slices, and a glass of water.

“You missed lunch.”

“Thank you,” Zona said quietly, surprised.

Yaz waved it off. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not running a bed and breakfast. You follow the rules, do your chores, and we’ll be fine. Got it?”

“I got it.”

“Good. Dinner’s at six. I expect you at the table. No attitude.”

“Yes—okay.”

Yaz nodded and left, shutting the door behind her.

Zona stared at the food. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t move right away. It was rare to be offered something without a price or from pity. She eyed the grilled cheese like it might come with a string attached.

Eventually, she gave in.

End of Chapter 3.