44. Hope
CHAPTER 44
Hope
T he evening is a blur. My mother is confused as we pull Braxton’s bleeding body from the car, and a wild storm rages in her gaze but is quickly taken over by the need to help. We arrive at the same time as the doctor, and although they try to take him into the spare room, I’m adamant he’s taken into mine.
I hold his hand the entire time the doctor works on him. Phone calls are made, and my mother’s voice becomes increasingly louder as she demands answers from my father. Some questions he answers, others he tells her she’ll have to ask me.
I don’t care about any of that right now. I just focus on Braxton, praying he makes it through the night. Grateful for my family, who are so quick to clean up this mess I made. If I hadn’t lost faith in him, if I hadn’t freaked out and called my father, none of this would have happened. It’s all my fault.
There’s so much blood on my bed, on my white carpet. But I don’t care. I don’t care about any of those things.
I’m exhausted, and at some point, I must fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s because my mother puts two glasses of water down on my bedside table. Braxton is hooked up to an IV drip, and I rub my tired eyes, shocked I was even able to doze off.
I immediately look at Braxton, who still isn’t awake. “The doctor said he should pull through and just needs some rest,” Mom says. I know she was supposed to leave in the early hours for a flight, but looking at the time on my alarm clock, it appears she has chosen to stay. “You need some rest, too.”
“I’ll rest when he wakes up,” I say adamantly, taking a sip of the water she offered.
She nods once, and I can sense my father looming at the door.
“We have much to discuss, it would appear,” she says as she goes to pull over a chair. My father, however, is quick to do it for her, and she tries her hardest not to smile. He’s in trouble because of me. But I know the argument won’t last long; it never does between my parents. She takes a seat, and my father stands behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.
The doc patched my father’s arm up while he was here, and we’re both certain that at the last moment, Braxton adjusted his aim.
“How much do you know?” I ask quietly. My mother looks up at my father, but he says nothing. He might’ve told her everything or nothing at all. But it’s not up to him to tell her my secret and shame.
I swallow hard as I look at Braxton thoughtfully, rubbing my thumb over his hand and asking him to give me support. No… strength.
I can’t even look at my mother. What will she think of me? How will this change us? What if she disowns me?
“Hope,” Dad says, grabbing my attention. “It’s time.”
My eyebrows furrow, and I know he’s right, but confessing to this amount of sin isn’t easy, even if he and my aunt accept me. Hell, even if Braxton accepts me. It’s my mother who I look up to most, so being anything but the perfect daughter to her is crushing.
I take another sip of water to moisten my dry mouth, then clear my throat. But the thing about lies is they seem easy at the start, but when they become too deep, too bold, they begin to take a form of their own. Into something ugly, even if they were told for self-preservation. I became conflicted by these lies, thinking I was doing it to protect her and others’ opinions of me, but deep down, I was scared to face it myself.
“I kill people for art,” I confess quietly. She takes in a sharp breath, and my father’s fingers dig into her shoulders as if grounding her. “It started when I was twenty, and I’ve been doing it ever since. Lately, it’s been increasing, and it inspires my glass sculptures.” She looks confused. “Everything started piling up recently. I felt like I couldn’t breathe with so much happening. I thought quitting college would help, but it didn’t. What I do is an outlet for me. I know it’s not right. I only target men who have hurt women, not that it justifies it.”
“Did someone try to hurt you?” she asks carefully.
That question catches me off guard. Is that the first question she has to ask through all of this? But I’m being honest now. “The first man I killed.”
“Good,” Dad says with a curt nod.
My mother stares at Braxton, but I’m quick to assure her. “Not him. Never him.” Although, I suppose, in many ways, he does hurt me, but I like that type of pain. “I actually met Braxton when I was eighteen. We only spent one night together back then.” My father looks like he’s about to murder him all over again. “I didn’t know at the time he was a cop. The night I was arrested was the first time I’d seen him since. I know it doesn’t make sense. I still don’t know what to make of it all. But I know I love him. I know I can’t stay away from him. And I’m certain tonight I learned that he’s been covering for me this whole time and making sure no one catches me.”
She lets out a shaky breath. I can’t read her rolling emotions or expressions. Suddenly, she looks at me. “And Kylie? Who killed her?”
I swallow hard and look at my hands wrapped around Braxton’s. I clear my throat. “I was jealous.”
“Jealous? You killed her because you were jealous?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes.” My voice quavers. I’m not proud of it. It’s the reason why I couldn’t sculpt the image of her body. I wouldn’t confess to having remorse because I don’t, not for any of my victims, and it’s already done. But I didn’t feel elated by it like I had my other victims.
I turn to my father, who’s trying to hide a smirk, and it twists a sick confusion in me as to whether I should be proud or ashamed.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Mom asks desperately. “Do you trust me so little?” I look at her, and I’m wounded by her stricken expression.
“I just—” My voice cracks as I hold her hand, my other still on Braxton, unwilling to break our connection. “I didn’t want you to hate me. I didn’t want you to know how fucked up your only child is. I didn’t want to be a disappointment when you’ve always been so proud of me. I didn’t want to be your shame.”
“ Hope .” Tears stream down her face, and she cups my cheeks. “I would never be ashamed of you.” She pulls me in for a hug, and I’m so shaken by everything that’s happened these last twenty-four hours that I begin to cry, not knowing how badly I needed this from her. She kisses my head.
“I will always love you. You are our daughter. It’ll take me some time to get my head around this, but I would never forsake you. I was able to love your father not in spite of this side of him but because of it. I just don’t agree with killing people because of jealousy. Your Aunt Anya might feel differently, though.”
I choke on a laugh and wipe away tears as I gaze up at her. She cups my face again. “Just don’t keep these things a secret. We’re a family. We look out for one another, no matter what. But if you don’t tell us these things, we can’t protect you.”
“I think our little one is very capable of protecting herself now, sweetheart,” Dad says, pulling her back slightly. It’s like my mother sees me in a different light now. I’m not their baby girl anymore. I think they’ll always see me like that in some ways, but I feel like, for the first time in my entire life, they truly see the woman I’ve become. No matter how messy or dangerous I might be.
She lets out a slow breath and shakes her head. “And people ask why I drink so much.” She tries to laugh it off, and an uncomfortable laugh bubbles from me as well. I remove my glasses and wipe my eyes.
“We need to put a few boundaries in place, though, so you don’t get caught,” Dad says, and my mother whistles, holding her hand in the air.
“Can we just take this one day at a time? I still need to process this.” She pats my hand. “I love you, but it’s a lot to take in. I still remember you taking your first steps.”
“And I remember you ignoring all of the boys,” Dad grumbles in complaint as he side-eyes Braxton. I smirk, gazing back at him as well. I wonder what he’s dreaming of, if anything at all. Most likely, he’s catching up on the sleep he lost while tangling himself in my games.
But there are still things he and I need to discuss. We’re not in the clear yet, and I’m still not entirely sure my father or aunt will leave him unscathed.
The storm hasn’t yet passed.