Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I close the laptop. The screen lingers for a heartbeat before it dies, throwing the room into a wet, navy darkness that smells of cigars, old leather, and a faint, sweet echo of Mary Kate’s shampoo from the last time she drifted in, wearing one of my shirts, and left her ghost behind. I lean back and look at the ceiling, the white molding arcing overhead like the ribs of a cathedral. What the fuck is going on?
There’s a sound. The front door, not the little utility entrance by the garage—this is the main event, the big double slab that’s as heavy as it looks. I listen for the footfall, and there it is: the snap of heel, the hard report of rubber on marble, then a silence, then another—out of rhythm, too quick, wrong for the girl I know.
I’m on my feet before my brain has finished the thought. Down the hall, the blue darkness fades into the long, cold echo of the entryway. The only light is the one over the staircase, an amber chandelier that’s mostly shadow and knives, but it’s enough to see her standing there: Mary Kate, framed in the doorway, white as a statue with a flush of pink at the cheekbones. She’s got her arms crossed under her chest, hugging herself, the phone dangling from her hand. There’s a wetness to her eyes, the kind you get from crying, and a halo of blonde hair whipped up by the walk from the street.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s breathing through her mouth, little gasps. I move slow, not wanting to spook her, but when she notices me, she doesn’t flinch—she just closes the distance, boots rapping the marble in that uneven, hurried way, and pushes the phone into my hand.
No words. Just the device, unlocked already, thrust screen-up at my chest like a subpoena.
I take it, and she lets go instantly, hands flying to her elbows, holding herself even tighter. Her mascara’s bled under one eye. Her lip’s bitten white, like she’s been clenching it since the sun came up.
On the phone: a video. I don’t hit play; it’s already rolling, in that way Snapchats never really stop unless you kill them. The first frame is a girl on all fours, nude except for a cowboy boots and hat, glitter on her skin, mouth open around a cock that looks too large for her face. The camera’s shaky, the lighting harsh and wrong. I watch the loop. The thrust, the gag, the way the girl turns her head and looks right at the lens. The face is hers—Mary Kate’s face, mapped onto the body with the kind of algorithm you can buy for ninety-nine cents on an app store. But even with the jitter, the bad lighting, the uncanny shimmer around her jaw, you could sell this as gospel to anyone who wants to believe it.
My own face is a glacier. I let the video play a second time, then thumb to the next one. This one’s a slow-motion grind: a girl straddling a man, sinking down onto his lap, the camera laser-focused on the starburst of her asshole as it stretches to take him, inch by inch. Her eyes roll back; her mouth falls open in an O that could be agony or bliss. A different cowboy hat, and different boots, the same flawless skin and the same uncanny overlay of Mary Kate’s face. But now that I know to look for it, the details pop: the lighting mismatch at the collar, the faint tremor at the corner of the eye when the real girl’s face would have flinched.
My stepdaughter stands there while I watch it, not moving, not even blinking. I feel the pressure in the air, the static of her humiliation and sadness, the way it makes her bones want to crawl out of her skin.
I put the phone down on the nearest surface. It rings against the old wood of the sideboard like a bell.
She finally speaks, but it comes out in a rush: “It’s Clay Newell. It has to be Clay. He’s been pissed ever since the party. Ever since you—” She cuts off, not wanting to say “punched him in the face,” maybe, or not wanting to admit that someone like Clay Newell could touch her world again after that.
I nod. I’m in doctor mode now, silent, letting her fill the space.
“He’s an asshole,” she goes on, the words getting sharper as she pushes through. “He was humiliated. He’s not used to losing. If he can’t get what he wants, he’ll burn it down. That’s how guys like him work. They want to own you, and if they can’t, they want to break you.”
She’s shaking now, but not with fear. There’s something volcanic behind the tears that don’t quite fall—an anger so pure it would be beautiful if it wasn’t threatening to tear her in half.