31. Thea
THEA
“No, you’re not fucked.” Aus wraps me in his strong arms. “We’re going to figure this out.”
I lay my head against his hard chest. “But how? What’s our next move? So much evidence stands against me—the shoes, the camera footage. I was drugged by the same man who was murdered that night. I mean, talk about motive.” I can’t help a soft sob.
Aus squeezes me. “It’s all circumstantial.”
I look up. “What if I did do it? If I was drugged, maybe I blacked out.”
“There’s no way.”
I whip myself out of his embrace. “How would you know? You barely know me.”
“Because I’ve seen true evil, Thea. You’re not it. You’re good and kind.”
I let out a sigh. “I wish I were as convinced as you.”
“Come on.” Aus grabs my hand. “We’re going to pay another visit to Wick.”
“Didn’t you already speak to him?”
“Yeah.” Aus frowns. “And I might have punched his fucking daylights out. Maybe I feel like doing it again after learning he drugged my girlfriend.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend?”
He drops his mouth open, darts his gaze around. “Sorry. I mean… I don’t want to presume anything. I just… I guess that’s how I’ve started thinking about you. It’s weird, but I care about you.”
I smile, which feels nice. I haven’t done much of it lately. “Maybe I’ve been thinking of you the same way.”
He grins.
We cross the street. Aus pounds on Wick’s door, calling out for him.
No answer, of course.
Can’t blame the guy. Last time he answered the door, Aus probably broke his nose.
I start laughing.
Not a good laugh.
The kind that says I’m fucked. So fucked. And nothing can help me.
“Thea, what’s wrong?”
“What isn’t wrong?” I sit on Wick’s stoop. “Everything’s pointed against me.”
“Again, the evidence is—”
“Circumstantial, I know. Put it on a T-shirt, sew it into a pillow. Big fucking deal. You said yourself that it doesn’t matter.”
Most mysteries go cold.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the cops aren’t looking for the truth, for justice.
They’re looking for someone to blame.
When a crime occurs, someone has to go down for it. The public needs to be fed the illusion or else they’ll lose their faith in law enforcement.
You don’t need to commit the perfect crime to avoid getting caught for murder. You just need to lay a trail of breadcrumbs that lead to the person you want to pin it on.
And right now, I have a big neon arrow pointing at me with the words “she did it.”
How do I know this?
Because I’ve lived it.
Emmy and Bill are already married on paper, but Emmy still wants a big wedding.
I don’t know why. It’s not like she has any friends.
And guess who gets to put up all the decorations and make all the arrangements, despite the injury to her leg?
Thea Storm, come on down!
I sigh. I suppose it was good of Bill to marry Emmy. We’d be up to our eyeballs in medical debt if he hadn’t. I still can’t believe Emmy completely neglected to get us insured.
He helped us out, but I still can’t shake the feeling of insects crawling all over me every time Bill looks my way. Every so often, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of my door creaking. Could be the house settling, I suppose. But it never happened before Bill lived here.
Emmy has given me a list of requirements for her dream wedding. It’s a much bigger affair than the one she had with my father. She must want to put Bill’s money to good use.
I need to book a big tent for the ceremony.
Clear the nearby field for the reception.
Spray for insects, establish trash management.
Organize the caterer, schedule floral deliveries.
Get the invitations out and harangue the guests for their RSVPs—and our cell reception here is terrible— when they fail to return them on time.
Some of the arrangements are easy enough to manage with my injury. The caterers, florists, the like. But clearing the land? Prepping the terrain for fifty-plus guests? It’s impossible. My thigh was just torn open, the stitches keeping it together still fresh.
I made the mistake of asking Emmy if this was necessary, and I was answered with another slap to my face. Her favorite MO.
She’s good at driving home a point.
So I’m out in the field, pulling weeds and shoveling animal shit. It’s hot as hell, and I’ve knotted my shirt to cool down a bit. I’ve been taking breaks every few minutes to check on my thigh. At this rate I’ll never finish on time.
I’m examining the injury, making sure the stitches are still secure, when Bill’s voice booms out from a dozen feet away.
Even now, weeks after he entered our lives, it still drives a chill down my spine.
“Working hard…or hardly working?”
I look up. “Sorry. Just checking on my injury.”
He creases his forehead. “Why don’t you come in? Emmy’s made some lemonade. You’re due for a break.”
I furrow my brow. “She did?”
“Yeah. She’s so thankful for all the work you’ve been doing.”
“Okay…”
That doesn’t sound like Emmy at all. Maybe before Dad died, but she’s been awful since then. I could give her my kidney and wouldn’t get so much as a thank you.
Maybe Bill’s having a good influence on her. Could be he isn’t such a bad guy. He’s the man Emmy chose to replace my father. Perhaps I’m holding him to impossible standards.
I get to my feet slowly and then amble next to Bill back to the house. Once we’re in, we walk to the kitchen.
My breath catches in my throat.
Emmy isn’t there. No lemonade in sight.
“Did… Did she bring it outside?” I ask.
Bill shakes his head and then locks the door to the kitchen.
“Bill?”
“I told Emmy to get out of the house for this.” He starts rolling up his sleeves.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve been watching you all day. You’ve been spending half the day tending to that damned leg of yours.” He looks to the calendar on the wall. “Wedding’s in a week. If you don’t speed up, your poor mother won’t get the wedding she deserves.”
“She’s not my—”
Bill slaps me. Hard. Harder than Emmy ever did. I fall to the floor, right on top of my injury. White-hot pain sears through me.
“She’s done more for you than your real mother ever did. She’s kept a roof over your head, food in your belly. The least you can do is be grateful, you little whore.”
Whore?
Not brat, not snot. But whore.
He chose a sexually loaded insult. The kind a father figure should never use.
I try to get to my feet, but Bill kicks me flat in the chest and I fall backward. The shirt I’m wearing busts open, my breasts falling out.
Bill ogles me. “Didn’t realize you were so stacked. Fuck, Thea.” He fondles himself through his pants. “You get those milkers from that mommy you love so much?”
I want to throw up. I’m fifteen. Bill has to be pushing fifty. No way he thinks talking like this is right.
But I don’t think he cares.
He closes in on me, his eyes not leaving my breasts. “Maybe your cunt of a mother did do something for you.”
I try to cover myself, but I’m frozen in place. Adrenaline is surging through me, but I can’t move an inch.
What can I do?
We’re the only house for miles. Kettle Springs is huge, and most properties have several acres’ worth of land. You can do pretty much anything here and no one would know anything about it.
Bill gets on his hands and knees, sniffs my neck. “You smell fresh, Thea. Fresher than your Emmy ever could.” He sticks out his tongue and licks a line down my neck, stopping just at the top of my cleavage.
“Please…”
He raises his eyebrows. “Please what? Please fuck me? Is that what you want, you little slut?” He brings his mouth right to my ear. “You want my big manly cock inside that sweet little virgin pussy?”
I ignore the fact that I’ve been called a virgin and a slut in the same breath and gather the tiny amount of energy I have to spit directly in Bill’s face.
“Little bitch!” He wipes my saliva off his cheek. “You’ve got fire. Just watch to make sure it doesn’t engulf you completely.” He crouches down and grabs my injured thigh, squeezing it right along the stitches. Parts of my wound start oozing blood and pus. I let out a scream from the pain.
Bill chuckles darkly. “I’ll let you go this time. But start working faster, or I’ll rip this wound open myself. And this time we won’t be going to the hospital to get it patched back up.”
He lets go of me and my leg clatters to the floor. I start crying.
“And get a new shirt, slut,” Bill says. “I don’t need to be tempted by those creamy tits.”