Chapter 16 #2
Her hands stop moving. I shouldn’t have said it, I shouldn’t have said anything.
I know immediately that it’s too late, though.
I already released the words into the universe.
“I waited for fucking months for you to visit me in prison. To come in and say you were sorry, that it was a mistake, that you had your reasons, that you were given no choice. When I asked my dad about you he just said you took the money and left with your family, that your loyalty was shit, and that I was worth around ten grand, that’s how much my friendship, my love, cost. And I remember thinking at least twenty, you know?
At least fifteen. Ten? She only took ten?
When she knows how much my family has? Or is it guilt?
I stuck on the number for so long, ten, ten, ten,” I slowly lift the sleeve of my right arm and turn it over.
The number ten in roman numerals is tattooed on. “I wanted to remember my worth.”
She bursts into tears over the clay. “You’re priceless, Jude.”
“I’m a number, Lilah.”
She looks over her shoulder, tears streaming down her face. I don’t steal them this time because they’re real, because they’re too many, and because I know if I reach out and kiss them away I’ll find her mouth and I won’t let go.
The temptation to take is too strong.
And right now, the truth is more important.
She’s devastated. And sitting in front of her is a masterpiece of a Cadillac. I can picture it, sitting in front of the gravesite, I can even see the driver with his fur coat.
Fur coat?
Wait.
I stare again.
“Lilah, you never had a sedan, you had a van.”
“I know. We rode in this, though.”
“It looks like part of my dad’s fleet, the cars he used for his men. Did your dad…” He’d gone to prison. He’d done shady things, her dad, but he was harmless. I saw him around our house sometimes but my dad said he worked for the dealership. He’d drop off cars and run errands. Now I wasn’t so sure.
He was involved. He had to be. “Your dad,” I ask. “Was he afraid?”
“No.” She sighed. “He almost looked relieved, which made me even more angry. Who’s relieved at a funeral? Who’s relieved when their daughter’s grieving and feels like her life is over?”
Her face mirrors mine. Loss. Confusion. Grief. I see it all. It’s the same damn wound caused by the same sort of circumstances that stabbed both of us in different ways.
Different wounds.
Same pain.
And both of us have been bleeding out for a very long time.
My fucking face if she keeps adding details.
"Something doesn't make sense." I change the subject. It’s too raw. She watches me carefully. I stare at the car. “Why would you be in one of my dad’s Towncars?”
She watches me carefully. “I mean, I don’t know, it was just there, we just got in.”
“Did you keep the car?”
She frowns then nods slowly. “Yeah, we packed our stuff in it and then when we moved it was just gone. Like he’d made a delivery or something. I never asked.”
“And that night.” I whisper. “What did you see the night you said I shot those men in self-defense.”
She immediately clams up. Her hands drop from the clay. And we’re back to square one as the lies she hasn’t even confessed line up between us. Alright, so that’s how it is, that’s the real secret.
I lean in. “Fear.”
“Wh-what?”
“You’re drenched in it.” I slam my hand down onto the clay destroying the car, destroying the evidence, and stand up.
“The longer you keep it inside, the more it grows. Ask yourself, who you’re protecting and why.
Besides, at this rate, I’m the only one willing to listen to your confessions, and I’m the only one who can set you free. ”
I’m disappointed.
In her.
In myself.
In the fact that when she finally has her chance, she panics. Who is she protecting? “Lilah, where does your dad work?”
Her eyes dart to the left and then back up to mine before she lifts her chin and whispers, “He’s the dean.”
“The dean,” I repeat. Must have missed that. “Of?”
“The business school, he just got another promotion.”
“He’s here.” I shake my head. “And you what? Go have lunch with him when you have free time? Golf on the weekends? Did you have to even lift a finger to get into school?”
She glares. “I worked my ass off!”
“Just checking, since you like to lie, Lilah.”
“You don’t know why I did shit!” She pushes back.
“And I never see my dad! My parents got divorced right after everything happened. I lived with my mom and my dad has some sort of existential crisis or midlife crisis, he buys cars and dates women half his age. I highly doubt he’s the monster you’ve made him out to be in the last few minutes. ”
“Then why did he fucking tell you I died? That’s not a white lie, Lilah, it’s life and death, which means he was scared enough to make you stop asking questions.
Makes you wonder what he knew, what my dad knows, and what my mom knew before she was murdered but she sure as hell didn’t take her own life with prescription pills with the housekeepers name on them, alright?
” I’m angry. Too angry to do this now. “When you’re ready to try honesty… ” I shrug. “You know where to find me.”
She says nothing.
I storm out of the room.
I can’t even look at her.
But at last, I know more now than I did before. So why do I feel so hollow inside?
Why does the truth no longer matter if I don’t have her on my side?
Why does it have to be her?
Shit.
I stomp all the way to my office and sit. I’m there for God knows how long, staring up at the computer screen when a knock suddenly comes out of nowhere.
It’s Lilah. She shuffles in and closes the door behind her. It’s quiet. Tense. Her eyes dart to my mouth and back up again.
“No.” I say.
“No?”
“I’m not Evans, I’m not bending you over this desk, that’s low, even for you.”
She clenches her fists at her sides and stares me down. “They said you would get a slap on the wrist. They told me what to say. They coached me. They said it would be fine and if I didn’t, my dad would go to prison. There. Happy?”
“Happy? No, I’m sure as hell not happy, Lilah, I’m not happy he’s involved, I’m not happy you lied, and now I’m really unhappy I’m not the type of guy Evans is because I think the only thing that would make me fucking happy is having you naked beneath me. Leave.”
“But—”
“Leave!” I roar.
She scurries out of the room, and I’m left there feeling equal parts relieved and aroused wondering what the hell I’m going to do about it.
Explains why my mom hated her in the end, not because of the trial but because she blamed her the same way I blamed her. The same way everyone blamed her. The realization makes me physically sick.
I reach out toward the door. She’s still standing there, breathing on the other side, staring like she’s willing to face my wrath just to say sorry again. That’s Lilah, though. How could I forget? She hates when people are upset with her, she can’t leave it alone.
If she were mine, I’d apologize for yelling. If she’d been mine all those years ago maybe she wouldn’t have done this, or maybe it would have happened exactly the same way. I don’t know anymore, all I know is she’s not mine now.
She’s out of reach. Maybe it’s for the best.
My fingers itch to touch her face again, to brush her hair back and look into her eyes. It’s instinct to touch her, dangerous instinct.
And suddenly I understand exactly why revenge stopped feeling satisfying the second she popped back into my life.
Because you can't spend years wanting someone dead—and years listening to them save you—
Without becoming completely, utterly ruined. The sound of her phone ringing zaps me back as she answers it. Then quickly gets off. I look down at my own phone. I got a text at nearly the exact same time.
Unknown number.
One text.
One attachment.
A photo.
I open it.
And every ounce of warmth leaves my body.
The door slams open. It’s Lilah holding her phone, while I stare down at the image. A date is stamped down at the bottom.
Both of our dads.
Together. Shaking hands.
In front of the fucking university, days after I went to prison.
My stomach drops.
Because suddenly the question isn't who lied and why anymore. It’s what did they both get in that lie and why were they standing together the week my life ended with fucking smiles on their faces like they’d just won when me and Lilah had lost everything?