Chapter 7 Reverie #2
Shudders roll through my body while I work to keep my mind from spiraling into a black abyss. It’s hard enough knowing my father did something so atrocious to so many women, but it’s another thing to force me to experience even a fraction of what they did.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I made that mistake only a few nights ago, when he kicked me to the edge of death’s doorstep, and now he has a goddamn picture to prove it.
I won’t make it again.
He tsks, as if disappointed by my refusal.
Keeping a tight hold on my hair, he tucks the knife into the back pocket of his jeans, replacing it with a black Sharpie instead.
This time, I’m not surprised when he bites the cap off, holding it between his straight white teeth as he stains more numbers into my heather gray T-shirt.
When he’s finished, he releases me entirely, recapping the marker and tucking it away again.
He stares at me expectantly, and I avoid meeting that expectation.
Though part of me knows it doesn't matter—they’re all fucking dead, anyway—there are certain dates I really, really don’t want to see.
His mother’s being one of them, and there’s no doubt he scrawled across my chest the day she went missing.
“You can’t keep ignoring her like you do with the rest,” he says quietly.
He might as well have stabbed that knife into my chest. He thinks I ignore Lionel's victims, but he has no idea how readily they haunt me.
Clenching my jaw, I drop my chin and read the numbers.
03/18/11.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to just breathe, even if it feels like an elephant is crushing my chest. My mind descends into a familiar black nothingness I once called home, dredging up memories and thoughts I can’t bear to think about.
After several slow, deep breaths, I open my eyes and lift my chin, meeting his cold stare, his face carved from the same stone encasing his heart.
Underneath all that rock, there’s something tender and vulnerable, but it’s as accessible as the core beneath the Earth’s crust.
“Are you satisfied now?” I ask, my voice husky with unshed tears.
He picks my expression apart, but I’m too exhausted to do anything else but let him.
He cocks his head inquisitively. “Do you know why I hated you as a kid?”
I sigh heavily, but it does nothing to alleviate the weight on my chest or the ache in my heart.
“Because I supported my dad,” I answer robotically.
His grin is humorless. “No, darling. Because everyone supported you.”
I nod, accepting that. “They did,” I agree simply. “The entire world said you were a liar and then showered us with sympathy, and defended us against what they believed to be a misguided accusation.”
He hums, appearing almost amused by my answer. “Did you like it? All their attention?”
“I didn’t understand it.”
He nods slowly, his stare scrutinizing. “Did it make your life easier?”
I shrug. “It didn’t make it harder. And that’s the point, right? You suffered, I didn’t, so now you’re here to make me suffer.”
Again, he studies me for a few beats, but whatever he’s thinking is locked behind an impenetrable fortress.
“Do you know why I hate you now?”
I frown. “I didn't realize there was a difference between then and now.”
“Kids grow up, baby,” he says, his tone mocking. “Supporting your daddy as a little girl makes sense. Supporting him and staying silent while his victims’ families fight for justice as an adult doesn't.”
“I don't support him,” I growl.
“Really?” he challenges. “Last I checked, you showed support up until your last interview when you were eleven, and you’ve never publicly stated otherwise since.”
“Oh, so I have to say it to the world for it to be true?”
He points at me, and snarls, “That's why. Right there, Reverie. Your self-preservation is more important than validating his fucking victims. You would rather stay silent and let the world think I put away an innocent man than tell the fucking truth.”
“What would my belief in you change?” I argue, splaying out my hands.
“Everything!” he shouts.
I flinch, and he inhales through his nose deeply, calming himself while I grapple with my scattered thoughts.
“If his own daughter believed he’s who I said he was, imagine how many minds you could change,” he says quietly, conviction creating the slightest tremble in his voice. “And when Lionel loses support, he loses his power.”
My expression is pained as I say, “That won't make evidence against him suddenly appear, and he still won't be charged and convicted for those murders without it.”
“No. But if enough people believe it, it would make it a lot harder for Lionel to make parole if it's believed he's a danger to society.
And if Lionel knows he's never getting out, then maybe he'll want the notoriety enough to confess. Even with the copycat murderer, he’s too much of a narcissist to let someone else take all the credit. That fucker would rather die than rot in prison while some other sick fuck gets his glory.”
My heart shrivels, and in this moment, I've never felt like a bigger coward.
Because he's right.
I do have self-preservation, and it's that very self-preservation keeping my teeth glued rather than admitting the truth.
It's too late.
Lionel could already be free.
He scoffs quietly when I say nothing, his eyes flooding with disgust, disappointment, and so much resentment.
Truthfully, I can relate, because it's how I feel about myself right now, too.
“I can see you’ve suffered, Reverie,” he says, his tone hushed. “Just not enough.”
He turns and gives me his back, dismissing me. Tears rise to the surface of my eyes, but I don’t waste a single second grabbing my jacket from the floor and charging for the exit, shrugging it back on and re-zipping it on the way.
The girls are no longer in the windows when I emerge into the living room, which is a welcome relief.
Except I can only bask in it for a few seconds. The moment I unlock and whip open the door, I come face to face with all of them huddled right outside it.
I jump back with a sharp gasp, my hand flying to my chest again and my lungs exponentially tighter than usual.
At this rate, my heart is going to either explode or completely give out from all the stress.
Their faces are blank, though mirth twinkles in a few of their gazes.
Beyond them, people are still partying in the hot tub, even louder and drunker than before.
They don’t pay us any attention, too lost in their own worlds.
I could call out to one of them for help, but there isn’t a single person who would care enough to save me.
Not when they’d have to face Dread’s wrath.
“You’ve made your point,” I snap. “Leave me alone.”
Stacy steps forward, her expression neutral, though her eyes are lit up with excitement. She silently holds out her hand for me to grab.
I recoil from her, my face twisting with derision. For all I know, that hand could’ve touched Dread’s dick before I arrived here, and that’s enough of a reason to keep that thing firmly away from me.
“You can come with me, or you can let him bring you,” she responds, her naturally high-pitched voice tinkling with challenge.
There’s that sinking feeling again. Unease slithers beneath my skin, and while I’m tempted to punch her and make a run for it, there’s no way I’ll make it through eleven other girls.
Exhaling an annoyed breath, I begrudgingly save her from needing a rhinoplasty and motion for her to lead the way.
I’m still not touching her fucking hand.
She smiles and deliberately grabs my palm, anyway.
Oh, fuck no.
I attempt to dislodge her fingers, but she holds tight, nearly cracking my fucking bones.
“Please tell me you washed your hands after fucking Dread,” I say, my voice shaking from the anxiety of having his dick juices all over me.
I’m on the verge of swinging when she pins me with an ‘are you stupid?’ look.
“He only fucks blondes. Everyone knows that.”
I blink. I definitely didn’t know that. Apparently, Victoria didn't, either, since she's not blonde and planned to give Dread her number tonight. Or maybe she did and was just hopeful she'd be the exception.
Regardless, I’ve made it a point to hear and see as little as humanely possible about Dread’s dating and sex life. The only thing I’ve gleaned over the years is that he’s not an easy catch, but nothing about the requirements to catch him.
My poor eyeballs can confirm he's made out with plenty of girls, but I've heard many of them complaining about it leading nowhere. Seems Stacy is no different.
Regardless, I feel slightly better about her hand touching mine, though I’d much prefer she and the rest of these girls let me the fuck go.
Stacy turns back around and tugs me after her while muttering beneath her breath, “Should’ve worn that fucking itchy blonde wig.”
The group crowds around me as we walk, ensuring there’s nowhere for me to run. Adrenaline continues to pump through my veins steadily, and my eyes bounce around every which way, just waiting for a moment to offer me a clean escape.
A white picket fence encircles the entire backyard, an exit gate in the far back corner. When we reach it, she unlatches the lock and drags me outside of it.
There’s nothing behind Craig’s house except a dense wooded area, and when I see that’s exactly where she’s leading me, my discomfort transforms into full-blown panic again.
My chest pumps faster, and the girls close in around me, sensing my flight mode being triggered.
“Where are we going?” I ask quickly, my shaky breath billowing out before me in clouds.
“Nowhere you don’t deserve,” Stacy answers cryptically.
Nowhere I don’t deserve.
Which means wherever they’re taking me is really fucking bad.
My body fills with an anxious heat, and I cast another glance around, but I still see no way out. My pulse thunders, sweat blooms across my nape and lower back, and it feels as if my blood sugar has dropped, making me jittery.