Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“I’ll rest when he wakes up,” I say adamantly, taking a sip of the water she offered.
She nods once, and I can sense my father looming at the door.
“We have much to discuss, it would appear,” she says as she goes to pull over a chair. My father, however, is quick to do it for her, and she tries her hardest not to smile. He’s in trouble because of me. But I know the argument won’t last long; it never does between my parents. She takes a seat, and my father stands behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.
The doc patched my father’s arm up while he was here, and we’re both certain that at the last moment, Braxton adjusted his aim.
“How much do you know?” I ask quietly. My mother looks up at my father, but he says nothing. He might’ve told her everything or nothing at all. But it’s not up to him to tell her my secret and shame.
I swallow hard as I look at Braxton thoughtfully, rubbing my thumb over his hand and asking him to give me support. No… strength.
I can’t even look at my mother. What will she think of me? How will this change us? What if she disowns me?
“Hope,” Dad says, grabbing my attention. “It’s time.”
My eyebrows furrow, and I know he’s right, but confessing to this amount of sin isn’t easy, even if he and my aunt accept me. Hell, even if Braxton accepts me. It’s my mother who I look up to most, so being anything but the perfect daughter to her is crushing.
I take another sip of water to moisten my dry mouth, then clear my throat. But the thing about lies is they seem easy at the start, but when they become too deep, too bold, they begin to take a form of their own. Into something ugly, even if they were told for self-preservation. I became conflicted by these lies, thinking I was doing it to protect her and others’ opinions of me, but deep down, I was scared to face it myself.
“I kill people for art,” I confess quietly. She takes in a sharp breath, and my father’s fingers dig into her shoulders as if grounding her. “It started when I was twenty, and I’ve been doing it ever since. Lately, it’s been increasing, and it inspires my glass sculptures.” She looks confused. “Everything started piling up recently. I felt like I couldn’t breathe with so much happening. I thought quitting college would help, but it didn’t. What I do is an outlet for me. I know it’s not right. I only target men who have hurt women, not that it justifies it.”
“Did someone try to hurt you?” she asks carefully.
That question catches me off guard. Is that the first question she has to ask through all of this? But I’m being honest now. “The first man I killed.”
“Good,” Dad says with a curt nod.
My mother stares at Braxton, but I’m quick to assure her. “Not him. Never him.” Although, I suppose, in many ways, he does hurt me, but I like that type of pain. “I actually met Braxton when I was eighteen. We only spent one night together back then.” My father looks like he’s about to murder him all over again. “I didn’t know at the time he was a cop. The night I was arrested was the first time I’d seen him since. I know it doesn’t make sense. I still don’t know what to make of it all. But I know I love him. I know I can’t stay away from him. And I’m certain tonight I learned that he’s been covering for me this whole time and making sure no one catches me.”
She lets out a shaky breath. I can’t read her rolling emotions or expressions. Suddenly, she looks at me. “And Kylie? Who killed her?”
I swallow hard and look at my hands wrapped around Braxton’s. I clear my throat. “I was jealous.”
“Jealous? You killed her because you were jealous?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes.” My voice quavers. I’m not proud of it. It’s the reason why I couldn’t sculpt the image of her body. I wouldn’t confess to having remorse because I don’t, not for any of my victims, and it’s already done. But I didn’t feel elated by it like I had my other victims.
I turn to my father, who’s trying to hide a smirk, and it twists a sick confusion in me as to whether I should be proud or ashamed.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Mom asks desperately. “Do you trust me so little?” I look at her, and I’m wounded by her stricken expression.
“I just—” My voice cracks as I hold her hand, my other still on Braxton, unwilling to break our connection. “I didn’t want you to hate me. I didn’t want you to know how fucked up your only child is. I didn’t want to be a disappointment when you’ve always been so proud of me. I didn’t want to be your shame.”