Page 85 of Love Her

And suddenly the sound I got inside my ears sometimes, like right before I was about to pull a trigger or slash a knife, returned, like all the blood inside my body was flowing through the same small place.

“My…boy?” I said, without any sound.

Enzo read my lips and his eyes went round. “Oh…I thought you knew.”

Isabelle had died on the way back from the ultrasound appointment she’d been to without me—because she’d been mad at me for murdering some fucking nobody who had it coming.

It didn’t seem worth worrying about what could’ve been, when it felt like everything I’d ever wanted had been taken.

“Oh, Rhaim,” Enzo said again, with infinite pity.

I picked up the beer and chugged it, before slamming it down. “I need to go. Thanks, Enzo,” I said, standing up quickly.

“Are you safe to be driving?” he asked, standing as well.

“In the mood I’m in right now—do you really want me to stay here?” I countered.

And he hesitated for a long beat—trying to be good until the end. Lost for anything to stop me, or any way to help, he wound up patting my back roughly twice.

“Don’t be a stranger, Rhaim—but next time, make an appointment.”

By the time I made it to my ride, there was a text from Lia on my burner.

It’s been a long day. I’m going to sleep now. I love you.

I love you, too.

I texted back immediately.

The dots on her end begin to whirl at once.

Don’t forget to save me.

I sat in the back of a dark car, staring at a bright screen, holding my phone like it was a fallen star, and texted her back:

As if I ever could.

50

LIA

Istared at my ceiling for a good thirty minutes in the morning before I got out of bed.

Today was the day before my father’s birthday party—where I’d be forced to interact with my‘real’father for the first time in a decade.

After last night’s unsettling dinner with Marcus, he’d made me pose artfully against him outside the restaurant, with my arms wrapped around his neck, staring up at him adoringly for a few intrepid reporters. I had no doubt blown-up photos of the scars on my wrists had been on every gossip site by midnight, but I didn’t care about that anymore—I had far bigger things on my mind.

Like…did my mom…know?

And…was she willing?

And I hated that I had to ask that, the very thought of it made me want to throw up, but after Uncle Freddie had forced himself so often on me, who knew what the fuck he was capable of? Plus my mom was blacked out plenty, so like, even if shedidn’tknow, he’ddefinitelyhad opportunity.

If she had known though—if there’d ever been a sliver of a chance—why hadn’t she ever said something?

Was that why Uncle Freddie got to live with us for so long?

So they could carry on covertly?

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