Page 32 of Sinful Lies

Her frail, trembling hands rested on the edge of the dining table, and I reached for them instinctively. Her fingers felt too light in mine, like they might just float away if I wasn’t careful.

Three years in New York.

Three years of building a life that wasn’t tethered to Bay Village.

Back then, we’d agreed—she’d visit every few weeks, stay for a week, then return to her house. It had worked for us. At least, it had… until it hadn’t.

I couldn’t call that place home anymore. It wasn’t.

But looking at her now—so small, so fragile—I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Mama, you know I can’t do that,” I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be.

Her grip on my hands tightened. “Why not, Jadie? What’s keeping you here? Your… job?” She said the last word like it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

I pulled my hands back gently, resting them in my lap. “You know why I’m here.”

“Jadie—”

“I made myself a promise, Mama. I promised I’d find the person who ruined us. And being here, working for the Lazzios? Every day I get closer. Closer to finding them.”

She shook her head. “And what are you going to do when you find them, huh? What,Jadie? You think revenge is going to fix anything? You think it’ll make the pain stop? Trust me, it won’t. It never does.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I’ll kill them.”

Her breath caught. “Jadie! You do not mean that. You can’t?—”

I cut her off, leaning forward now. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do. Don’t tell me what I don’t mean. Because I’ve been carrying this,this”—I gestured at the space between us, the weight of all we’d lost—“for years. And the only thing keeping me breathing is knowing that one day, I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.”

The words left my lips like a vow.

I sat back, my nails digging crescents into my palms as the memories surged.

The abyss I’d spiraled into after the psych ward. The haze of drugs and cheap highs. The arrests. The self-destruction so complete, I almost didn’t recognize the version of me that had crawled out of it.

What had saved me wasn’t hope, wasn’t love, wasn’t even survival. It wasrage.

A cold purpose that focused me like a razor’s edge.

Revenge became my lifeline, my obsession.

And I’d done a damn good job of it for the last three years.

My vault room back at my apartment? It was filled wall-to-wall with receipts, photos, timelines, connections. A meticulous, airtight roadmap leading me straight to the bastards who had destroyed my family.

Every day, I got closer. Every day, I sharpened my plan to finish what I’d started.

The idea of abandoning it? Of walking away because revenge wouldn’t bring them back or soothe the raw ache grief had carved into my chest for the last five years?

That was a joke. A sick, nauseating joke.

I would see this through.

My mama could beg me, plead with me, but nothing was going to change that.

She sighed, her shoulders sagging. Slowly, she lifted her coffee cup to her lips.

Clara Whitenhouse. My mirror.

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