Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“I’m saying you can know if he lied or not...right now. But it has to be your choice.”
W-What is he saying?
“How much do you want to know the truth, Junebug? Because sometimes, the truth isn’t what you want it to be.”
“I d-don’t understand.”
“I’m offering you a choice. Red pill or blue pill.”
I’ve seen the movies that line’s from, so I get it. He wants me to choose between knowing the truth...and turning my back on it because I’ve chosen to continue living safely in my little bubble of safety.
“One pill lets you go back to your apartment, no question asked. It’s as if you were never here, and Fred will act like he’s never met you. You can just go back to Sestini and live happily ever after.”
“And the other pill—”
“—is for him,” Elliot finishes coolly, “because you believe he deserves a dose of his own medicine. And there’s nothing for you to feel guilty about because that man...nearly destroyed you. So why not let him suffer the same way he made you suffer? Eighteen minutes...for eighteen years.” He’s still using his attorney voice. The kind that makes you believe you have all the good reasons to avenge yourself, and even though I’ve heard him speak like this in countless times...
This is my first time to hear it as his target recipient, and it’s very, very effective.
“It's a good trade-off. More than he deserves, if you ask me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s no use. I see him in bed with another woman on our wedding night. I see him with Francine with the long legs. I see him walking away from me for the first time, one Tuesday afternoon in a cemetery.
And when I open my eyes and look at the screen—
I suddenly find myself thinking of Mr. Diaz and Morris and all the other people in this building...
All of them are on his payroll, even Fred himself, and it’s only because Elliot vouches for him that I’m here. But honestly, at this point, how do I even know that Elliot himself is someone I can trust? It’s like everyone has their own agenda—
“What's it going to be, Junebug?”
Elliot’s tone is calm, his words rolling out at a leisurely pace, but that just makes things worse because it tempts me once again, and I just don’t understand why.
Why does it always have to be like this with him? Why is it that whenever and wherever he’s involved, I feel like laughing and crying at the same time, and right now it's because of that.
My apartment on those six screens, now a potential crime scene, and Nicolo, someone I can potentially set up. It’s the kind of diabolical scheme that I only used to type and transcribe for work, but now I've become my work, in the worst way possible.
I know he's hurt me. But if I hurt him like this, how does that make me any different from him?
And what's worse is what I still can't make myself ask out loud, eighteen years later.
Does he love me?
I just...I just don't know if he does.
Chapter Thirteen
“THEY’RE COMING BACK,” Fred says.
I turn back to face the monitors and fight against the urge to start biting my nails. I ditched that habit in my middle school, but now seems a really good time to—
No, strike that.
I’m a mature woman in my forties, and I can definitely handle watching my apartment from six angles, all in grayscale. He hurt me, I hurt him back, so he doesn’t do it again. That’s the plan.
So why can’t I just stop feeling bad about it?
I force myself to look back at the monitors. The lamp in the corner. The throw blanket folded the way I fold it. My coffee cup in the sink. My keys in the bowl.
Everything is where it should be except for the owner of said apartment, a.k.a. me.
The door opens earlier and later than I want it to, and I only realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time when I finally see Rollo coming back, and my husband right behind him.
He looks...he doesn’t look like he always does, back then as Nate or now as Nicolo. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it a million times. His jacket is missing, and he’s already yanking on his tie as he slowly turns in a circle, taking it all in. His jaw clenches, and so does my chest.
Because even if he’s not saying anything, I can see what he’s thinking, and he’s thinking all the wrong things. He’s looking for evidence of a crime that never took place, of clues that he’ll never find because I’m not the victim.
He is.
And I’m okay with that.
Because he deserves this.
He does.
If I tell myself often enough, I know I’ll believe it. Eventually.