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Back One White Lie Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. FORTY-THREE
  47. FORTY-FOUR
  48. FORTY-FIVE
  49. FORTY-SIX
  50. FORTY-SEVEN
  51. FORTY-EIGHT
  52. FORTY-NINE
  53. FIFTY
  54. FIFTY-ONE
  55. FIFTY-TWO
  56. FIFTY-THREE
  57. FIFTY-FOUR
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

My nostrils flared as I gasped for breath. I took two quick steps, and before I could think to stop myself, before I could close and lock the hatch again, my hands were on the bookshelf. I jerked it, easily, like one of those moms lifting a car to save their baby, pinned beneath it. It clattered to the floor, wood cracking, its guts, its books, spilling out as Dusty whined. But it wasn’t enough. It was never fucking enough. Pushing the sofa aside, I lifted up the coffee table, letting glasses slip off it, and overturned it so it smashed into the floor. In the kitchen, I grabbed plates, chucking them against the tile, against the window Davis had broken in the back door. I tore drapes from the windows, ripped sheets from the bed. Overturned a desk, knocked framed prints off the walls, breaking their glass as I sent them crashing onto the floor.

I undid it all, everything I’d worked so carefully to keep neat and tidy.

All the work I’d done to make sure I’d know it if Davis ever came here.

Only, it wasn’t him I had to worry about. It was them. All of them.

It was me.

I screamed, grabbing the lamp from my nightstand, smashing it against the wall until the drywall split, filling the room with dust, until my arms were tired, until tears coursed down my cheeks, until I felt glass shards beneath my feet, until my socks turned bloody.

I had killed Vera, the woman who said she’d protect me.

I had murdered her, just as Rachel said.

I was worse, even, than I could have ever imagined. An uglier person than I’d ever known.

I lifted the lamp over my head and brought it, once more, against the wall, and as I did, I saw him.

I saw the look on Davis’s face as I’d lifted that whiskey bottle, bringing it down, crashing, over his head, as I’d fully let the hatch open for the first time in years, decided I wasn’t going to take his controlling bullshit, his mind games, his emotional manipulation, the bruises he left when I was sleeping – none of it – anymore.

I saw him fall to the floor of our apartment. I saw him passed out, unmoving. I saw myself, realizing what I’d done, that the bruises he’d given me had long faded, that I’d been too stupid, too ashamed, to capture any proof.