Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
She’s not talking to me about anything but how delicious the pizza is and how good it feels to be home. It’s as if she’s shut down the emotions, compartmentalized the hell she’s been through, and locked it away. There’s no doubt though that eventually that door will burst open and the monsters inside will not only have grown stronger, they’ll demand to be acknowledged. For that reason, and it’s a big one, I’m of the mindset it’s better for her to face those monsters now, on her own terms, rather than later, when they will sneak up on her. The idea that this day will cause a lingering effect the way being locked in the cellar did is literally gutting me alive right now, but it’s all too raw for me to push her.
All I can do is be here for her, be present, as I promised her I would.
We’re on the second slice of pizza each when my cellphone rings with Blake’s number. Looping her in, aware the unknowns are not good for her right now, I angle caller ID toward Alana.
“Can you please answer on speaker?” she asks, clearly paranoid about what comes next.
I answer the call with, “Blake, you have me and Alana on the line.”
“Alana,” Blake greets. “How are you?”
“Better,” she says. “We’re eating pizza, and the food is helping me feel more myself. Thank you for all you did today. Your voice was the first friendly voice I heard for hours. I know I didn’t react like I was relieved, but I was.”
I’m reminded of Blake telling me she’d been screaming when he’d found her, freaking out in the darkness. My fingers curl into my palm, anger ticking in my jaw. My father has to pay, and maybe death is too good. He needs to be locked in a dark, fucking room somewhere and left there. It’s not murder. It’s poetic justice.
“I’m just happy we have you back with Damion,” Blake replies. “And I’m calling for an update on your mother, anyway. She’s refused to leave with Joey. She went to the bathroom before they were to leave for the airport. She stayed in there a very long time, and when she came out, she announced she was not leaving. We think she was convinced by someone else not to go with us. We’re monitoring her phone, and there was no communication, but there could easily be another phone we don’t know about.”
Alana’s chin dips to her chest, and I can feel the intensity of her emotions punch at me, but before I can interject, her gaze is locked on mine. “Do we think she set me up, or was she an innocent victim? And I’m asking the same question of both of you.”
Blake doesn’t hesitate. “Do you want me to be gentle or shoot straight?”
“Gentle doesn’t save me, Blake,” Alana says, flattening her hands on the coffee table, as if bracing herself for the answer that will inevitably hurt her. “Hiding from the truth doesn’t help me.”
“All right then,” Blake says. “I believe she set you up, but I’m not sure she knew what she was setting you up for.”
“I disagree,” I say, holding nothing back. Alana is right. The truth is what she both needs and deserves. “I confronted her. I saw how she reacted. She knew what was planned. I know she knew. But despite this, I offered her protection and I convinced her to accept.”
“How?” she presses.
“I’d prefer to have this conversation with you alone, Alana, but Blake needs to hear this.”
“Go ahead,” she encourages. “Say it. Tell us.” There’s a brave lift to her chin, and I hate how easily I’m about to create guilt in her.
“The only reason your mother accepted the idea of leaving the country is that my father wasn’t taking her calls and with that knowledge, I was able to create fear in her. I scared her.”
“How?” she asks.
“When you accused my father of killing your father, you put eyes on him.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “That was my intent.”
“My father doesn’t respond well to being cornered. He’ll find a way to push himself free. I know how he thinks, and he’ll look for somewhere to place the blame. Or rather, someone to take the blame, and he’ll make sure they can’t fight back.”
She sucks in a sharp breath as a thick, muddy river of understanding seeps into her stare. “My mother,” she supplies. “And the only way she can’t fight back is if she’s dead.”
“I know how my father thinks. In his eyes, that will mean she kills herself and leaves a suicide note, declaring herself too guilty to live with her crime.” I don’t give Alana the space to drown in those words, quickly moving on and adding, “I told your mother as much. I suspect that Blake is right. She has a way to communicate with my father that we don’t know about, and when she was in the bathroom, they connected, and he reassured her he’s madly in love with her. She then reassured herself he’d never hurt her.”