Chapter Eight
The police weren’t helpful at all. According to them, there were no signs of forced entry, and they couldn’t tell how Dad had died just by looking at him.
They’d already taken his body to run some tests, and we should hear something back relatively soon.
Mom had locked herself in her room after feeding and changing Isabella, her muffled sobs echoing through the house.
Needless to say, I wasn’t going to school for at least a day or two. Not while Mom was in such a delicate state. I didn’t trust her to take good care of my little sister when she was like this.
My fingers absently drifted over the fresh cuts on my arms. The slight burn sent a small thrill through my system, and I blew out a steadying breath, opting to focus on the pain instead of all the shit happening around me.
Home had never been much of a comfort. Sure, it was where I grew up. But it was also where my parents fought, where Dad cheated, where the people closest to me didn’t understand or value me.
What were we supposed to do now?
Mom wasn’t done healing, and she’d be the prime suspect in Dad’s murder.
That was how things worked. I knew she wouldn’t be arrested for it.
My mom was too docile and weak to commit a crime as gruesome as that.
She was the perfect little trophy wife through and through. To the public, everyone adored them.
They didn’t hear the mean things Dad said behind closed doors. They didn’t know he chose to stay late at work so he could have his way with his assistant. They didn’t know that my mother sobbed quietly in bed every night when Dad was passed out drunk and couldn’t hear her.
Now, Dad was gone.
And a sick part of me was relieved by that. But that also opened up an entirely different can of worms. Who kill him? Why? Would they be back to finish the rest of us off? And all the questions I asked myself before.
If my life wasn’t a shit-show before, it certainly was now.
***
Cops came and went through the next two weeks, asking us the same several questions they asked us before.
It was getting annoying and frustrating fast. If that wasn’t bad enough, Mom was spiraling.
She started drinking again, which was a problem considering Isabella was breastfed.
As a result, she had to switch her over to formula, which she was still adjusting to.
“Are you okay?” Lizette asked, eyeing me skeptically like she was convinced I’d break at any given moment.
We were perched on my bed, my eyes locked on the creepy doll I’d strangely grown attached to.
There was nothing special about it. It was an antique doll.
Maybe I liked it so much because my mom would hate it and make me get rid of it if she knew it were here.
She’s seen one to many horror movies, and this doll looked like it had waltzed right out of one.
I glanced over at my friend, not sure what to tell her. She didn’t know the strange man had assaulted me when I was at my most vulnerable and proceeded to murder my father afterwards. Hell. I wasn’t even sure if it had actually happened.
“I’m fine.” I forced a small smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. There was too much on my mind.
“You can tell me if you’re not, Ember. It’s okay to not be fine all the time. You don’t have to act tough around me constantly.”
She didn’t understand. Being strong was my only armor. If I took that away … Fuck. I didn’t even want to think about it. Talking about my feelings didn’t come naturally. It left me weak and vulnerable, and I’d never willingly put myself in a situation to get hurt. Not like that.
“Who said I’m acting?” I shot back, my voice more monotone than I intended. I couldn’t even muster the strength to be a good friend to her.
Lizette eyed me skeptically before blowing out a breath and nodding. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t force you. But I do think you should at least talk to someone. Even if it isn’t me.”
A teasing smile tugged at my lips. “What? Like a shrink?”
She didn’t laugh. Which told me she was being serious. “I don’t think it could hurt.”
Frustration bubbled up inside of me. “I’m not crazy,” I snapped. “I’m fine.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but I’d keep repeating that to myself and to those around me until it worked.
Lizette shifted on the bed uncomfortably, her gaze dropping to her hands.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” she defended.
“But I’ve seen the marks on your arms. I know you rarely let me come over because of your parents.
Hell. When was the last time you invited me to your house, or didn’t have an excuse as to why I couldn’t come over when I asked? ”
She had a point. I didn’t want her to hear the vile things my dad said to my mom. I asked her to come over today because I thought she’d be a good distraction. Clearly, it was a mistake. She meant well, but the last thing I needed to hear was how fucked in the head I was.
“My family is a shit-show.” I shrugged. “But I’m handling it. And honestly, I am fine. Maybe I shouldn’t be with all things considered, but…” I trailed off, not quite sure how to conclude that sentence.
Lizzie eyed me for a few moments, clearly uncertain of whether she should believe me or not. But she finally blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay. Well just know that if you ever want to talk about anything, or if there’s ever a time where you’re not fine, I’m here.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “Thanks.”
The rest of our time together was mostly us theorizing what could have happened to my dad, and she rambled on about some of the guys at school who she thought were attractive.
Once she left, I found myself sprawled out on my bed again, peering up at the ceiling.
There was nothing interesting about it, which was what drew me to it in the first place.
Because there was nothing interesting about me either.
Did it make me a sociopath if I didn’t care about my father’s death? In fact, I was glad it was gruesome. He deserved to suffer for all the things he put us through. He’d never been cruel to me, but he had been absent. He also never cared if I could hear the hateful things he spewed at my mom.
Over time, I’d gotten used to it. But watching him treat her that way right after she had a baby sent me over the edge. She was alone and hurting. He should have been there for her, not tearing her down and making her feel worthless.
I loved my mom, but I resented her too. She chose to put up with him, and she cared more about our reputation than about my happiness or well-being.
I swallowed thickly before pushing myself into a sitting-position. It was probably time I told her what had happened to me the night Dad was killed. Maybe she’d open up about whoever this Savannah person was to her.