Chapter 7
Piper
Present Day
Iget back in the car with Josh, my temples throbbing.
What now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I was so fixated on finding the murderer that I never thought of what I’d do when I did find him.
Well, I did have plans to kill him in the most painful way possible. But the most violent thing I’ve ever done was punch Kevin. How do you even end a person?
No. How do you end Quill?
I stare out the window, my eyes burning far more than they did when Jax bullied me in fifth grade, or when I walked in on my dead dad. Or even the day Quill called me a worthless whore at the moment when I needed him more than I ever had in my life.
I once imagined that I’d be able to count on him taking care of me forever, but he sure proved me wrong on that.
I nearly choke on the bitter feelings that rise up in me.
I hate him. I really hate him. Every part of me hates every part of him.
And yet… I don’t think I have what it takes to kill him.
I close my eyes as an embarrassing tear winds its way down my face. I hastily wipe it away, but Josh notices.
“Do you…” he clears his throat. “Do you know him?”
Do I know him? I practically laugh out loud. There isn’t a person I know better than Quill Nelson in this world. I’d like to say I wish it weren’t the case, but that would be a lie.
Even the memory of him, the intensity of those eyes in his face always partly hidden by the long black hair and the hoodie, is enough to make me shiver. The tattoo twisting its way down his arm. I was there when he got it. He told me he thought it looked awful, and I agreed.
But I lied, because nothing could look awful on him. Nothing could feel awful, coming from him, or sound awful in his mouth.
Even those words he called me–worthless whore– they weren’t awful. Just cruel. Terribly cruel.
“You’re a worthless whore,” he’d growled in my ears. “A worthless fucking whore. I wish I’d never met you.”
He did make me feel worthless when he said those words as he drove his cock into me relentlessly. Because at the time, I would have accepted pretty much anything if it meant I got to spend even one more minute with him.
I’d like to think, now, that I have a little more self-respect. But I’m not so sure of it when it comes to Quill Nelson.
__
FUCK!
I wake up drenched in sweat. It’s pitch black and one of my hands juts out in search of the light button that’s somewhere to my left, while my right hand wraps around the umbrella under my pillow.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. An umbrella? An umbrella? What the fuck am I supposed to do with an umbrella?
It’s all I can do not to let out a bloodcurdling scream as the light flickers on, confirming the image that’s just shattered my sleep.
He’s here. Standing in front of me, a terrifying demon sent straight from the underworld to torment me. The monster who murdered my parents. And now he’s come to kill me.
Monster. That’s the only word to describe the nightmarish creature. A featureless white face, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, just white where the face should be. Half in shadows because of the fabric pulled around it. At least I think it’s fabric. I can’t find my glasses.
The monster stares at me for a moment, standing at the foot of the bed as I pant, my entire body clammy, goosebumps pebbling my arms, wet…
Wet between my legs.
What the fuck?
I’m frozen in shock, both at the sudden monstrous apparition, and at my body’s unexplainable reaction. Before I can even bring the umbrella up to protect myself, the monster turns and walks out of my bedroom, leaving behind a scent of spicy warmth that feels strangely familiar.
It takes me minutes to manage to get up, my legs shaking, grab the umbrella and walk out of my room. The front door didn’t click shut. He’s still here.
I go from one room to the next, straining with nerves, every inch of me on high alert.
But he’s not here. Not in any of the other rooms either.
The only presence is the deathly silence, punctuated only by my hammering heart.
The shadows painting the walls are only made by curtains and furniture. The monster has vanished.
It takes me an hour to admit to myself that the monster really has gone. If he was even here. Maybe it was just a nightmare?
In real life, a monster wouldn’t make me horny… would it?
The theory that I dreamt the whole thing begins to take hold until I at last give up my search.
But I’m too creeped out to return to my bedroom.
Instead, I cuddle up into a ball on the living room couch.
The last thought that enters my mind is, “I’m not going to fall asleep.
I’m just going to lie down for a minute… ”
Before I know it, it’s morning.
__
The thought that the monster was anything but a nightmare feels laughable in the bright penthouse suite as sunlight streams in.
I’m not a morning person and it’s hard work to get up in time for the taekwondo class. I’m finding myself regretting signing up for it as I walk into the shower. But the hot water reopens all of yesterday’s wounds.
The cranky exhaustion leaves me abruptly as it feels like I just got hit by a truck. Suddenly, there doesn’t seem to be a bottom to the pain.
I crouch in the corner of the shower, the heat of the water pummeling into my skin. It’s crazy that only one day has passed. Crazy how one day has the power to change literally everything.
I know I’m not even processing most of it yet.
Every particle of strength I have is focused on keeping the massive rip in my heart closed, on keeping all the shit contained.
I know that one day, Dad’s lifeless eyes that I saw last night in my dreams will haunt my waking hours.
But I don’t want them to. I’m not ready.
I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Stay the fuck away.
I’m so focused on throttling the images of my dead parents, of throttling any memory of them alive, that I don’t have the energy to keep thoughts of Quill at bay.
Quill Nelson.
The boy I once thought of as my world.
Nine years of obsession. One year of happiness.
Destroyed in an instant.
He destroyed my happiness, and then he promised he’d destroy my life.
I guess he’s done that, alright.
There’s no longer any part of me that isn’t convinced he pulled the trigger. And I don’t wonder, either, why he didn’t kill me too. He doesn’t want me to die. He wants me to suffer.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, willing the hot water to wipe away the memories, the pain. But at some point, my brain reminds me I have a taekwondo class to get to.
I’m regretting signing up again, and actually wondering if I shouldn’t just cancel, because exercise is not something I ever look forward to. And I’m definitely not looking forward to it now.
But if I don’t get fit, there’s no way I stand a chance against Quill, who was all muscle the last time I saw him, three years ago. If he’s kept up his weight lifting, I’m fucked.
Sighing, I rummage through the bag of necessities I purchased yesterday evening with the black Amex card, and wriggle into leggings and a tank top.
This definitely doesn’t seem like the right kind of attire for taekwondo, but I didn’t bother reading the website description. Anyway, I’m not doing this for the fucking fashion show. I’m doing it to kill a man.
Maybe I should have signed up for shooting classes instead, but you can’t get a gun without a permit, can you?
I’m about to head out when my cell phone rings.
“Piper? Hi, it’s Officer Jones.”
I stop in my tracks, my heart beating fast. “Yeah?”
“Great news, Piper. You can go home.”
I sag backwards against the door as a clusterfuck of emotions overwhelm me.
Relief, at being able to run the hell away from this penthouse suite, with the word danger written all over it in neon letters.
Dread, at going home, and having to open up the gash just a bit and deal with all the shit inside it. Surprise, as it means…
“You’ve already found him?”
“Huh?”
“You found the killer,” I say. “That’s why I can go home, right? It didn’t take you very long.”
“Oh.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, Piper, the thing is, we did find the killer. You are no longer a suspect. Nor even a person of interest, so you can breathe easier.”
I click my tongue. I don’t give a fuck about that. I want the name of the killer now.
“Well?” I snap impatiently. “Who did it?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that it was a… murder-suicide.”
I nearly drop the phone on the floor as blood crashes against my ears. A murder-suicide? No. Impossible. Dad would never… Mom would never… He loved her so much… He worshipped the ground she walked on…
I’m in such shock that I don’t even know which of those words I speak out loud, if any. But Jones continues, “Actually, we’re not sure if it was a murder-suicide or a suicide pact. I should have led with that. I’m sorry.”
There’s a long silence as I try to wrap my mind around the words coming to me from the phone. It feels like my world is imploding.
“Impossible!” I cry, shouting the word into the phone. “They wouldn’t leave me here all alone in the world! Liar! You’re a fucking liar! Who are you covering for?”
There’s another heavy silence, and then Jones speaks, as if he’s doing his very best to control his own temper. “I understand it’s a shock for you, Piper. Believe me, I’m not covering for anyone.”
Believe me. Someone else once spoke those words to me. Believe me, Piper. I’ll never let you go. Believe me, Piper. I love you. You’re my whole world. I’ll always protect you.
Believe me. The words of a fucking liar.
“A suicide pact,” I echo, my voice hollow. “But they wouldn’t have left me all alone.”
“That’s a very natural reaction to have,” Officer Jones does his best to soothe me. “Of course, your mom didn’t have a choice…”
My skin prickles at his words. What does he mean, didn’t have a choice?
He must sense my confusion, because he stammers in clarification, “With her cancer, of course.”
I feel a sudden, enormous lump rise in my throat, and try as I might I just can’t seem to swallow it down.
Cancer.
The tin sound of the word as it filters through the phone doesn’t seem to hold any meaning. It feels empty. No, not empty. Impossible.
It can’t be true. He’s lying.
If she’d had cancer, I would have been the first to know. She never breathed a word to me about it.
She was my mom. Is my mom. Some random police officer wouldn’t have found out about a cancer diagnosis before me.
He’s lying. That’s it. Lying, because he’s just a fucking liar.
But my hand shakes as it squeezes the door handle, and my knees buckle. I feel like I’m about to collapse.
“She had only a few months to live,” drones on Jones. “Maybe your dad felt that life without her would be intolerable. Does that sound like him?”
Yes. Yes, I guess. Dad loved Mom so much. I can’t begin to imagine how he would have reacted if she’d died.
But cancer. She couldn’t have had cancer. What the fuck.
It takes whole minutes for the word to wrap itself around my brain. Cancer.
More minutes to allow myself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the cruel liar isn’t the one currently on the phone with me.
Is Jones right? Could she really have had cancer? Did she hide it from me?
How come no one fucking told me?
Did Dad know? He must have. But he didn’t tell me. Mom didn’t tell me. No one said a fucking thing.
What the fuck?
Are the people who raised me nothing but liars?
Before I can prevent the words from spilling out of my mouth, I croak out, “How… how long?”
“How long?” echoes Officer Jones.
“For how long did she have cancer?”
There’s a pause as he seems to understand the meaning behind the question. I didn’t know.
“Well, Piper,” he says sadly, “her records say she’s been fighting that battle since she came to Astley.”
I sink to my knees. Since she came to Astley.
It doesn’t feel possible. Mom, struggling with cancer for more than half of my life, and I never even knew?
How is that even possible?
And yet, as my mouth opens to shout that Jones is the dirty liar, I suddenly realize with a sickening feeling that it makes so much sense.
I’d always resented Mom for being the reason for our uprooted existence. For wanting to return to her hometown of Astley, where we became known as the poor family, and I was the target of bullying growing up.
Mom had cancer. And Dad would have done anything for her. Her one wish was to go home. And he made it happen.
I close my eyes bitterly. If only I had known. My throat squeezes as I remember all the times I lashed out at her. All the times I was frustrated at how distant, how distracted she was.
Of course she was. She was fighting a losing battle.
Things could have been so different if I’d known. I wouldn’t have grown up hating her. I would have grown up taking care of her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
What the fuck is wrong with them? Why couldn’t they have told me?
“Piper?” asks Jones uncertainly from the other end.
It takes a few tries before I manage to bite down on the bitterness and speak.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Her cancer turned terminal very recently. Just three days ago. It seems likely that she and your father made a humane decision to end their lives together. We’ve decided to close the investigation, and you can go home.”