Page 19 of The Obsession

And I had to make that leap. I had to meet her halfway, show that we were operating on the same wavelength. “Like walking down Bras Basah Road in the slick tropical heat while eating kueh tutu off squares of banana leaf?” I said.

Delilah’s eyes snapped to mine, and those perfect lips stretched into a smile, a real one this time, as she said, “Yes,” in a voice soft with wonder. She was looking at me in an entirely different way, and in this moment, nothing else mattered.

Delilah’s phone chimed, and she took it out of her pocket. Her smile melted away. “I should go. Brandon’s old partner’s at my house.” A new expression crossed her face, turning her features into that of a stranger’s. It was so different from the Delilah I knew that it took me a while to realize what it was—anger. Then she looked at me, and just like that, she was back to the same sweet Delilah. “Sorry, Logan. I should be there for my mom. Mendez is…” She shook her head. “She’s persistent.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my heart racing. Why was Brandon’s old partner at their house? Did she know something she shouldn’t? I knew by now—of course I did, I’d seen the video, hadn’t I?—that Delilah was much stronger than I’d given her credit for, but maybe she was in trouble. Maybe she needed my help.

But then Delilah smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid for no reason.” And she gave me a smile so radiant, I forgot all about my concerns. She stood up and brushed herself off. “See you, Daddy,” she said.

Daddy’s butt wagged extra hard. “See you in school,” I said. “You can borrow my notes for chem if you want.”

“That’ll be great, thanks. Bye.”

I picked up Daddy’s leash and tugged it lightly. “Let’s go, Daddy.”

There was a newfound spring in my step as I walked. I went over our conversation, going through every word, every sentence. Trying to recall the exact moments when Delilah had smiled or laughed. Drawing her face in my mind in minute detail—the angle she tilted her head to when she laughed, the way she licked her lips and how she brushed her dark hair behind her ear. We’d had a connection. She’d felt it too. The look in her eyes when I spoke about her favorite books said it all. And as soon as the fuss over Detective Jackson died down, there would no longer be a Logan or a Delilah, only an us.

Chapter Seven

Delilah

The days following Brandon’s death, Mom swung back and forth from hysterical to even more hysterical as she scrambled to make funeral arrangements. I jumped every time the doorbell rang, half expecting Mendez to show up and cuff me for killing her partner. She’d come ’round with the excuse of wanting “to see how you guys are doing.” Sometimes she’d bring homemade empanadas, like that was all it took to make murderers fess up.

After Brandon’s funeral, Mom and I ate dinner in baffled silence, both of us unsure of what to say to each other after more than a year of having all our conversations revolve around Brandon. We spoke in hushed voices at first, because that was what used to be safe. Anything louder than that and we risked Brandon shouting at us to shut the fuck up, because he couldn’t hear the game over our goddamn chatter. Then, one night, in the middle of a whispered sentence, Mom let rip a huge burp, and for a second, we stared at each other in terrified silence. One of us squeaked, and the squeak turned into a giggle, and soon Mom and I were doubled over the kitchen counter, gasping with laughter. Then, as suddenly as it began, Mom stopped mid-laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Mom, it’s okay to laugh,” I said. “He was terrible, he—”

A sob escaped her, and she shook her head. “Don’t, Dee. Just—don’t.” And then she rushed out of there, leaving me shaking my head with disappointment. Didn’t she realize what an amazing gift she’d been given? I’d gotten rid of the awful, abusive figure who’d been dominating us for so long. I’d given her a whole new lease on life. Why wasn’t she more relieved? I guessed she loved Brandon at one point, but she must’ve known on some level that he was a monster.

I guess Mom felt guilty about laughing so hard, because the next day, she informed me that she’d made an appointment for the two of us to see a therapist. I rolled my eyes and didn’t say much on the drive over, but truth be told, part of me was dying to talk to someone. I mean, holy shit. Sometimes, the realization would strike me randomly.I killed somebody.And the worst part was, I didn’t feel that bad about it. Sometimes, I tried to imagine myself back in the garage, watching the pool of blood grow before me, just so I could feel that nauseating sense of guilt crush me, but it was getting harder and harder to get that feeling, and that felt bad. I should feel guilty, shouldn’t I?

The therapist, a middle-aged Asian woman called Dr. Angie Lee, nodded and made sympathetic sounds as Mom sobbed into a wad of tissues about how abusive Brandon had been and how horrible she was now feeling because she wasn’t feeling horrible enough about Brandon’s death.

“I mean, I miss him, I do, but—” Mom said. She glanced at me and said, “I’m a terrible mother, what kind of example am I setting for my daughter?”

You shouldn’t feel horrible,I wanted to say.You didn’t kill him. I did, and I’m mostly feeling great.

Dr. Lee looked at me and tilted her head. “Delilah, how do you feel about Brandon’s death?”

“I—” To my horror, my voice cracked, and the words came spilling out. “I’m so confused. I know I should feel really guilty and sad and whatever else, but I just—I don’t. And I feel like crap about the fact that I don’t feel guilty.” I sucked in my breath in a quick hiss and bit my lip. Had I revealed too much?

Dr. Lee smiled kindly. “How the two of you are feeling is absolutely normal. Often, people feel responsible or guilty when someone close to them passes. And with Brandon’s history of abusing both of you, you’re experiencing some very complicated emotions, which is understandable.

“Abuse victims do whatever they have to do in order to survive and come out the other side intact. Feeling guilty is part of the process, but you also need to accept that Brandon was abusing you. Both of you. You’ve been given a second chance at life. Take it. Set aside some time to grieve Brandon’s passing, but also celebrate the fact that you survived. You deserve to live your best life, especially after everything you’ve been through.”

She was looking at me when she said this, as though she knew exactly how I was feeling. It was amazing to hear a professional say it wasn’t my fault, even though the professional in question didn’t know exactly what I’d done. I left her office feeling light as a bubble. She was so right: abuse victims do whatever they have to do in order to survive.

Mom still cried that night as she did the dishes. I hugged her and wondered how she could possibly grieve Brandon, of all people. But the next morning, I woke up alone. I was worried at first, until I thought to check my phone. There was a message from Mom:Had to go to work early, have a new project to run. See you at dinner, pumpkin.

She was back at work. Gone was Brandon’s ridiculous notion that my mom, the woman who graduated summa cum laude from Georgetown, who took great pride in her job, should stay at home to serve him.

After two weeks Mom started to hum whenever she did the dishes, and I noticed that she stopped jumping every time there was a noise in the house. She even started wearing some makeup again. And though she still cried sometimes, I had the feeling she was only doing it out of some sense of obligation and not because she actually missed the guy. And I…well, I was changing too.

Now that Brandon wasn’t around to tell me I was a slut for talking to boys, suddenly the guys at my school no longer seemed as dangerous. A whole world was opening up. I could talk to whoever the hell I wanted! My posture slowly corrected itself. I no longer stared at my feet when I walked. I met people’s eyes. I returned their smiles. I didn’t shoot up in popularity, but other kids at school were starting to acknowledge me. That was okay. Popularity is overrated. I was satisfied with the friendly but aloof smiles from my schoolmates.

The person I was dying to see was Logan, whom Aisha called Hot Logan. The nickname needed some work, but I couldn’t argue with the logic of it. With his wavy, brown hair and his strong jaw and—Jesuslord, look at his abs—Logan was hot. He had this way of looking at you, this sort of dark, intense expression that made you feel like you were the only girl in the whole entire world. I probably didn’t have much of a chance with him.

But a few days after I came back to school, as I was walking to the library for my shift, someone called my name.

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