Sometimes I want to shake her, scream in her face, and demand to know what the hell she’s doing. But then I remember she doesn’t know the whole story.
Not yet.
I can’t be too angry because she doesn’t know who he really is and what he’s done. But she will, soon enough.
Chess, not checkers.
But, I swear, if he gets rough with her again—like I do—I’ll scrap this entire plan and burn his fucking house down with him inside. I bet his poor little sister will really cry over him then.
She’s going to pay for this, too. All of them are going to pay for what they’ve done.
I can’t dwell on that, though, I have work to do. I’m busy admiring what he’s done with the place. It almost makes him seem half normal. I start in his bedroom, slowly taking in every single item, one by one. I wonder if he was always this clean or if he had to adapt out of necessity. You can’t attract someone of Brett’s caliber by being any old slob. As I sweep my hand along the edge of his bed, I wonder how dark he likes it when he sleeps. I hope he likes it pitch-black, because that’s where he’s going to end up by the time I’m through dismantling and laying waste to his entire life.
After making my way back to the living room, I walk the perimeter, examining every single thing on the walls. His dog peeks around the corner of the sofa, having just come from the kitchen. He lumbers over to me for another scratch behind the ears. Hopefully he’s not supposed to be a guard dog, because if so, he’s a pretty shitty one. When I popped the door to come inside, he looked more excited than anything. But he’s cute as hell, so I sat down and petted him for a while before taking my tour.
I’m in no rush—I know his master will be gone for a while and my phone will go off if the cameras I have outside detect anyone who crosses the driveway.
Continuing along the wall, I pause at a photo sitting on one of the shelves. I recognize the people in it. In fact, when I glance around the room, I recognize everyone in his photos. They’re more or less all the same people. But there’s a stark difference between their faces before and their faces after it happened. So stark, in fact, that I freeze when I come to one particular picture on his wall. I stare at it, not moving, for I don’t even know how long.
That. Fucking. Psycho.
How fucking dare he have this picture hanging on his wall, in his house, so he can look at it every single day.
In one instantaneous jerk, I slam my palm against the picture, breaking the glass. Slowly, I lift my hand from the frame and let the pieces fall silently to the carpet. Then, I reach into my pocket and take out my knife, flipping open the blade with a satisfying click.
I wasn’t the craftiest kid in school, but today I’ll do some of my best work just for him. After I finish cutting and pasting shapes, I move on to some painting. I reach into the front pocket of my black hoodie and retrieve a can of spray paint. Red seems the most appropriate for the occasion.
I stroll around the room, searching for the best canvas, until I decide on the strip of wall above the hallway leading to the front door. After dragging a chair over, I start swishing the paint spray over the wall in smooth, curvy motions until I’ve spelled out the two words that will, no doubt, land like bombs in Dresden in his living room. I step down from the chair to admire my artwork. It’s pretty impressive, and I wish I could be here in person when he sees it, along with the wreckage of memories I’ve made into custom artwork just for him.
I can’t wait to see their faces. Maybe I’ll pop some popcorn and have a good laugh. I can’t imagine what he’ll be thinking, what’ll be running through his mind when he sees my gift to him. His reaction will be gold. Granted, it could never be as bad as mine was years ago, but nothing can ever come close to that. I have a good imagination, though, and that’ll have to do.
The beauty of it is, when he sees it, he’ll know it was me who did it. And he won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. I turn back to the wall and glare at each of their faces.
Nothing but lies and deceit.
Each one of them was complicit—is complicit.
And if they think they’ve gotten away with it, if they want to run with the big wolves, I’ll introduce them to the real ones…
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Brett
One Year Ago
I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to wake up every day just to remember something horrible that happened the day before. It’s what happened yesterday, when I opened my puffy, red eyes and remembered that my book is gone—my entire book is gone.
I should’ve been pleasantly surprised when Bowen sat down on the edge of the bed and started brushing my hair out of my face like we didn’t just have the weirdest argument ever the night before.
“Dad needs my trailer, then I’m running over to Jay’s,” he murmurs as I blink sleep out of my eyes, “I’m taking your laptop. One of his coworkers is in IT and said he can take a look at it.”
But it didn’t matter.
Even Jay’s friend couldn’t salvage my files, inexplicably lost in the ether.
Some people lose receipts or calendar invites or confirmation emails. I lose a 150,000-word labor of love.
Sunday isn’t much better, because today I woke up and remembered that Jay’s friend couldn’t salvage my book and it’s still gone. And, on top of that, I don’t know how to process any of this. Because the one person—my best friend—who would know how to help me, is no longer my best friend.
A small shred of me wonders if I should just text Barrett. Can I overlook her tits being on Bowen’s phone for just a little bit while I try to navigate the utter pain and devastation of this loss?
What the hell am I saying?
She also told Bowen about Colson, that I’m trauma-bonded to him and I always will be. Then she walked downstairs in nothing but her underwear and asked my fiancé to go upstairs to her room with her. The more I think about it, the more I remember tiny details spread out over our entire friendship, and I get angry all over again.
Were there signs? There are always signs.
No, I can’t just text Barrett. Even about this.
Bowen’s gone for most of the day again with Jay, because it’s always with Jay. But I don’t think he’s avoiding me; I think he’s just trying to give me some space because he’s otherwise acting relatively normal. But I can’t concentrate on reading and there are only so many times I can walk around the house aimlessly before I feel like I’m going insane.
But I’m already going insane…
When Hildy texts me and asks if I want to go to dinner with her and Leona, I immediately welcome the distraction. I don’t even change, just grab my purse and head out the door in flops, running shorts, and baggy off-shoulder t-shirt.
It’s hot, but sitting creek side with a breeze coming off the water while drinking margaritas and eating tacos and ceviche isn’t a bad start to the evening.
“So, what did you think about Bo’s plan for the wedding?” Hildy grins at me over the edge of her margarita glass, teasing the straw between her teeth.
