Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
My chest is tight, so I take a deep breath, then exhale before I try to speak. “I’m sorry if you were embarrassed.”
Her brown eyes bulge out of her head. “Who wouldn’t be, Cassie? What the hell is going on with you lately? Why aren’t you telling me anything? Why were you at that house the night Timothy Walters was killed?”
Only in the darkest corners of my mind have I even bothered to run through what an interaction might look like if I told my mom the truth. I knew there would be horror. I knew that the likely outcome would be her thinking I am a terrible person.
But that persistent thread of hope was there that perhaps she would surprise me. Maybe she would understand.
I can see in her eyes now that there’s no chance, so I don’t gamble with my freedom by telling her any part of the truth. I tell her the story Tor prepared for everybody else.
“I’ve been seeing Tor Walters. I was with him that night.”
“So when I told you Timothy Walters was dead, you already knew because you were there, and you just decided not to tell me?”
“Yes. I had been up all night at the police station. I was tired, and I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you’ve been sneaking around, having a whole secret relationship with someone in that family you claim to hate so much? Here you’ve been making us feel awful if we didn’t go out of our way to condemn them, and you’ve been, what? Dating one of them? The twin brother of the boy you say raped you?”
Her weaponizing word choice does what eighteen years of stomachaches have not been able to accomplish.
It snips the thread.
“You know what? I’m not going to argue with you about this,” I tell her.
With that, I turn back around and start toward my room.
“You better get your ass back here right now,” she tells me, coming around the couch. “I still have a lot of questions for you, missy.”
“Are any of them ‘are you okay?’ or maybe ‘are you in trouble?’” I demand, my temper and my hurt getting the best of me. “Because I’m hearing an awful lot of accusing and very little support. Don’t know why I expect anything else at this point.”
“Do not talk to me that way in my own house,” she snaps, following me down the hall.
Instinctively, I turn around, not feeling safe with my back to her. My mother has only gotten physical with me a couple of times in my life, but I seldom stand up to her, either. I know from experience she views that as provocation.
Glaring at me, she demands, “Did you have something to do with that boy dying? You tell me the truth right now, or so help me…”
“Maybe,” I say, eyebrows rising. “My ex-boyfriend is apparently the one who killed him, and it seems like maybe he followed me to Tor’s house that night, so… maybe. And I still don’t care. He got what he deserved, and expecting me to mourn a piece of shit like Timothy Walters to save face is actually certifiably insane. Just so you know.”
I hardly have time to register the movement before the impact of her slapping me across the face. A gasp of surprise slips out of me as I look back at her.
I see a look on her face I’ve only seen a few times because I’m usually careful to avoid bringing it out. It’s pure, homicidal rage. The wild kind of look that lets you know someone is capable of truly terrible things.
I wonder if Tim saw that in my eyes the split second before I pulled the trigger.
I don’t think so, and I guess I’ll never know, but at this moment, I wonder.
I hope it’s the last time I ever think of him, but I know it won’t be.
I wish it was the last time I’d ever think of her, but I know it won’t be, either.
Tears spring to my eyes. Not from pain—at least, not the physical kind. The slap stunned more than it hurt, though my skin is stinging.
“Stay away from me,” I tell her lowly, my voice shaking. For just a second, I try to channel all that rage she seems to carry and look at her with the same kind of danger in my brown eyes. Maybe knowing I’m under investigation for murder will make her think twice about coming after me.
Then I turn and go to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I don’t have a lock. I used to, but Frank removed it after an argument years ago.
Once I’m alone, I let the tears fall freely. I cry until I can’t breathe, and once I feel empty, I grab a tissue and wipe the tears away.