Anger makes me fist my hands. But it's a different kind of anger. Not the explosive side I'm used to. No, this is manipulative, slow, wanting to hurt someone; the kind of anger that kills. The kind that gave my father the wrong medicine, knowing it would kill him.
June stays locked up in her room all night. I take my time, bringing down my art supplies and stacking them in front of the fireplace where our family portrait still hangs, along with a tall ladder. I mix the most violent shade of red I can, and I climb the ladder. Standing up there, so very close to those faces I used to know so well, I wonder whether there's a way for me to forgive Dad for what he did, now that he's gone forever.
I remember the sting of the belt. The pain. The scars. The blood.
No.
Never.
I'll never fucking forgive him, dead or alive.
I scratch out his eyes then, and Rachel's, too. I don't give a shit about damaging the expensive frame, or the painting, or the fucking wall. I slash at the art with a knife. I splatter red paint all over our faces. I only leave June's out. Leave her innocent, unmarked, unmarred, and beautiful.
She won't stay that way for much longer.
22
June
Something's off.
I can't quite put my finger on it, but I know something's wrong. My body just doesn't feel right. My breasts feel impossibly tight as I pull on my dress that morning, and my bra won't fasten behind my back. I groan and decide to forgo the bra. My nipples harden beneath the fabric of my blouse, and I do my best to cover them with my hair.
I'm meeting Kade today, and the thought of seeing him again is making me nervous, my cheeks flushing a nervous bright red.
I texted him last night. I couldn't help myself. After Parker's explosive outburst, I was so worried, and I needed to know whether there was any truth to his outrageous statements. Kade texted back right away, and it hurt me how formal he was with me. Like I was a business associate or something. Like I didn't mean anything to him at all.
We set a time to meet in a local coffee place downtown. I deliberately picked a place that was a short drive away, not wanting to run into Parker. But I needn't have worried—his bedroom door is still locked by the time I emerge from my quarters. He's sleeping.
When I come downstairs, I stop in my tracks. My eyes go to the painting above the fireplace. It's been one of the rare constants in my life, that painting. Every morning, it would remind me of the special family connection we all shared. But it's ruined now. Desecrated. Someone's slashed at it, scratched out Mark Miller's eyes. Red slashes of paint cover the canvas. It must've been Parker—who else would think to ruin the family memory like this?
I swallow thickly and head outside. I don't have time to dwell on this. I have to meet Kade and get some answers from him.
My driver takes me to the coffee shop. I'm ten minutes early, but as I exit the limo, I notice Kade is already there. He's wearing his signature navy peacoat, sitting at a private table for two by the window. He glances up just as I emerge from the car, and his eyes drink me in hungrily. I guess those formalities in his texts were just a false pretense... But I don't know how I feel about the way he's looking at me.
A part of me wants this. Wants him to just pull me in and tell me how much he missed me. That he'll take care of me, watch over me. Make sure I'm okay, and not let anyone hurt me, not even his twin brother.
But the other part of me is afraid. Afraid that the same darkness that seems to be running through Parker's veins is in Kade's, too.
I shake my head to get the thought out. A bell rings as I enter the coffee shop, and Kade stands when I approach the table. We stare at one another awkwardly. I don't know where to put my hands. My stepbrother sticks his in the pockets of his coat.
"You look good," he finally says.
"So do you," I mutter, the lie slipping from my lips slowly, like molten honey. The fact of the matter is, he does not look great. Kade looks fucking terrible. His eye is bruised and swollen, and he has a split lip.
I sit in front of him at the table, and he looks anywhere but into my eyes, nursing a cup of coffee. I order a chai latte with almond milk and glance around as I settle in my seat. Parker isn't here—obviously. But I can't fight off the paranoia following me like a thick cloak since last night and our stand-off.