Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Where are you going?” She follows me across the hall, stomping her bare feet.
“Better be careful,” I warn as I shove things into my bag. “Somebody might hear us up here. You wouldn’t want Mommy to know you have anything to do with an evil Bishop.”
“Stop acting like you have the first idea of what I’m thinking or feeling.”
“As soon as you stop insulting my intelligence and wasting my time.” I wasn’t good enough. I’ll never be good enough. “Congratulations. You can have Mommy all to yourself again. I won’t get in the way.”
“Grow up!” she shouts.
I can only laugh. “That’s funny, coming from you. You can’t bring yourself to accept what you did. All this time, you depended on me. To save you and to take the blame.” What an unforgivable idiot I’ve been. Everything Dad always accused me of being.
Once I’m packed, I force myself to look at her. There are tears in her eyes. I’m not falling for them this time. “The cops can take care of you now. I’m finished.”
“What am I supposed to tell Mom?”
“Ask me if I fucking care.” That’s the problem. I’ve already cared too much for too long. That’s over. It’s all over.
I don’t need any of this. Not her, not Emma, not this fucking house or the ranch. I don’t need anyone but myself.
Good thing, since that’s all I have as I march down the stairs with my bag in hand into the gathering dusk.
That and the sense of losing something I never had in the first place… but wanted. I wanted it so much, I hate myself for it.
Not as much as I hate her.
And my father, for shaping me into something that will never be good enough. For leaving his bloody fingerprints all over my life. For staining me to the point where nothing will ever make me clean.
Chapter 31
Allie
If I don’t stop crying, my eyes might swell shut permanently.
Mom isn’t home yet, but it’s only a matter of time. How do I explain why Kade left out of nowhere? I would have to confess to a lot of things. Like us being close enough that we could have a fight like the one we had. The memory brings fresh tears to my eyes. How do I even have any moisture left in my body after sobbing until my head aches? And how could he throw everything in my face like that?
The way I threw everything in his face?
Dammit. I slam a fist into my pillow, not that it helps any more than it helped to soak the same pillow with my tears. I could’ve done so many things differently. Why did I have to hurt him?
Easy. Because I wanted to. I did. I wanted to make him feel small like he made me feel. I wanted to hurt him.
All I did was hurt myself. Way to go, Allie.
And now everything is somehow less without him here. Maybe I didn’t understand how lonely and dark my life was until now, or maybe it just looks lonely and dark because I know what it’s like to have him with me. To wake up with him, to be held by him. Nothing compares to that. It feels like nothing and no one else ever will.
But it’s over. You can’t come back from the kind of things we said to each other—and he was cruel. I’m not the only one to blame.
But he wasn’t wrong about a lot of things. Through all the crying, I’ve had time to think, and the fact is he was right. A big part of me still feels like I’m better than him and his family. A part of me still doesn’t trust him, no matter how much I wish otherwise.
And that right there is why it’s probably best for him to leave and never come back.
Though it means taking him away from Mom all over again. And she was so happy to have him here, too. Did I just ruin that for her?
I’ll have to come up with something to say by the time she gets home because she’ll want to know where he is. I force myself through the motions of getting dressed to prepare for the conversation, then brushing out my damp hair until it hangs in a dark red curtain over my shoulders. I didn’t even get the chance to condition it, so the brush catches on the tangles left behind. The brief pain feels deserved.
I don’t feel like blow-drying it, either. It’s like the simplest things take too much effort. I could be happy right now, happy with him, and I let it get ruined. I can’t expect him to forgive me, because I’m not sure I can forgive myself for how awful I was.
Even though I don’t feel like it, I plug in my hairdryer and get to work, forcing myself to stare at my reflection when all I want to do is walk away, disappointed in myself, angry at how stupid I was. Even if he had those men killed, and he must have—I can’t believe Mom would do that or that she’d even know someone to do it for her—it was for me, right?