Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Blame my father.
That’s what he taught me and Julian—aside from never believing in those silly things called feelings.
That’s been doing my brother’s train wreck of a marriage wonders, by the way, so I’m also a firm nonbeliever. I don’t know of a single happy marriage in my entourage.
At any rate, I don’t think Violet saw me, and if she did, she’s getting way better at wearing her favorite poker face, because she never once paid me any attention.
Not that I wanted her to. I was only there to observe because Mario needs a few more days to get back, and I don’t fully trust his replacement.
Violet bought the kid an expensive thirty-dollar doll. And it is expensive in her financial clusterfuck, because she barely has any money in her account. Yes, I checked. She’s constantly writing in the stupid journal that they’re always short on money and she wishes Dahlia would stop buying her unnecessary shit.
Patches for back pain—that’s what’s unnecessary in Violet fucking Winters’s book.
I’m glad Dahlia called her out on the doll after they dropped the kid off at her mom’s and made it back to their place. I was outside on the balcony. Sue me.
“Karly doesn’t really have toys, Dahl,” Violet said, giving her sister a glass of milk—seriously, what? “And Laura is really struggling.”
“You’re struggling, too,” Dahlia said what I was thinking.
“Yeah, but I’m not dealing with fighting an abusive ex in a child custody case. Besides, I never had any toys growing up, so I wanted to bring some happiness to Karly. That’s all.”
“Aw, Vi. All right, but don’t strain yourself, okay?”
“Okay.”
Liar.
Violet is the biggest fucking liar I’ve ever met.
I was ready to see what she wrote in her journal that night and if her true words would contradict what she said.
In the beginning, I started to read her journals to see what she actually thought, because Violet is an inward person who bottles everything inside. Then I wanted to see what she wrote about me.
There was nothing.
She only mentioned me there once—the day she recognized me from TV. Since then, she’s never talked about me again.
She probably thinks that if she ignores me hard enough, I’ll stop existing.
But she can’t possibly ignore what happened last night.
I waited patiently until Dahlia fucked off to her room, falling asleep in five minutes flat, snoring a bit, actually.
And then Violet scribbled in her journal for a while, worked on a piece of embroidery she’s been doing on and off for a few weeks, and then also went to sleep.
I waited until her breathing evened out and she fell into deep slumber, then I unlocked the balcony door and came in.
It was so easy, since, well, they live in a little-to-no-security area.
Violet’s asleep on the sofa, the sheet barely covering her plain beige pajamas. She dresses in such an unflattering way, and yet I can’t help but notice the stretch of her T-shirt over her perky breasts or the delicate curve of her throat.
She had a scarf on today, to hide the hickey on her neck.
My mark.
Mine.
A wave of something unfamiliar grabs hold of me, but I rip my gaze from her and take the journal from her backpack.
Today, she wrote about how it felt good to be out and about with Dahlia and Karly.
I run my finger along the last line.
Dahlia said I shouldn’t have bought the toy for little Karly, and maybe she’s right, but I simply wanted to be for her what no one was for me.
I turn to the previous page, but there’s a dot where her evening musings should be.
A fucking dot? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Am I…a dot?
I narrow my eyes on her. This fucking—
My plans to shake the fuck out of her dissipate when I see her trembling.
She brings her hands to her chest and bends her knees. I realize she’s making herself as small as possible as she balls herself into a fetal position, mumbling something unintelligible.
I lower my head toward her, and I still can’t make out what she’s saying.
But it’s clear she’s in pain, her teeth chattering, and sweat beading along her upper lip. I touch her arm and it’s tight. No one should be tight while they’re sleeping.
It’s as if she’s half awake, waiting for something to ambush her.
What are you afraid of? I think to myself as she tightens further, almost clenching her teeth.
Something about the whole scene sits wrong with me.
Maybe it’s because I don’t like the idea of my doll being afraid of anyone but me.
It has to be that.
Because when I feel her relaxing beneath my palm, I stay there until she’s no longer scared.
And it disturbs me. This…strange feeling that keeps drawing me toward her.
It’s not normal.
Or logical.
And I need to amputate her before she turns into a bigger problem.