Chapter 15 Witness X
Witness X
Let People Underestimate You
Dolly Parton once said, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap,” and it always reminds me of Dad. People underestimated him, too. It was one of his more strategic traits.
Most people want to be seen as intelligent, culturally elevated human beings, edging as close to the top of the social hierarchy as possible. Not Dad. He curated his public personality to be seen as the joker, the philandering fool, the life of the party, the one you can’t take seriously.
Nobody ever suspects the nice, stupid person of anything.
He liked it when people underestimated him.
You saw it in his eyes—they lit up when he got the opportunity to surprise people.
Or, rather, humiliate them. He lived for it.
He was never a man who demanded respect from people he met; he preferred to lurk in the shadows and wait for an opportunity to strike. Like a snake.
He was the complete opposite to my mother.
Even from a young age, I could never work out why she and my dad were together.
She was always drunk, screaming and shouting right up in his face.
She scared me. Dad had always been quieter than Mum.
When I was really young, I thought that meant he was kinder and safer.
I didn’t understand he was even more dangerous than her.
The problem with allowing people to underestimate you is that they can get quite nasty about it. Everything in life comes with a cost.
It was at one of Declan’s family parties that his dad cornered me. It was early on in the relationship and I was still enjoying the newness of it.
His dad was a quiet, intellectual type. Never said much, but you could tell he took everything in. It was out of character for him to spark up a conversation with me away from everyone else; I knew something bad was coming.
“This won’t last,” he said, glancing around the room, smiling like a raging sociopath so as not to arouse suspicion. “He’s drawn to the excitement of a girl like you. I understand it, I do. But you’re short-term. And you can drop this ditzy, nice-girl act—I don’t buy it.”
I was caught off guard.
“I care for your son a lot,” I replied, hoping he couldn’t sense the panic in my voice.
“No, you don’t,” he said, finally turning to look at me. “Cheap, common little slags like you don’t care for boys like my son. You see them as toys. You use them and spit them out when you’re done.”
This man was a sensible accountant; small in height, skinny. He wore rimless glasses that made him look like a kind little grandad. Part of me was incensed; the other, toxic part of me was impressed.
Because he was right.
That’s the thing about pretending to be something you’re not: you have to be prepared for someone to see right through it.
You can’t fool everybody. And, when someone comes along holding a big, shiny mirror up to your behavior, you must be ready to face the grotesque, distorted monster staring back at you.
Then, you have two choices.
Either you can decide to be a better person and prove them wrong, or you can do exactly what they predicted and be the manipulative slut they already think you are.
I’ve never, ever forgotten what he said to me that night or how I felt when he said it.
The shame. The guilt. The self-loathing. The crushing sense of humiliation and exposure.
The only other time I’ve experienced those emotions with the same level of intensity was the night Anton Smythe died.