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“Is that what this was about?” I choke.
“Ellie…”
“You fucking need me as an emotional punching bag?!”
I know from the way her face pales I just hit the nail on the head.
“I—you’re my sister, and if you were with him?—”
“I wouldn’t be available whenever you felt like acting psycho?!” I hiss. “Whenever you needed someone to confirm you as the main character of the world?!”
“Ellie, that’s rude?—”
“FUCK. YOU.”
The words thunder from my chest with a force that genuinely terrifies me and sends Camille skittering back a few steps. Her eyes are wild as they dart over my face.
“Okay,” she says brusquely. “I can see you’re upset.”
I bark a bitter laugh.
“Stay the fuck out of my life, Camille. I need you gone, now.”
Her eyes go wide. “You—!” she sputters indignantly. “You don’t mean that.”
“I really do.”
I march past her and yank open the door to the loft.
“But first,” I spit, whirling on her. “I want to hear you say it.”
“What do you want me to?—”
“I want you to admit that you went to my dorm room. How you knew Alistair was coming there because I told you he was. And how you fucked Ansel Albrecht and his buddies, and made it look like me.”
Her face rearranges back into that pathetic “woe is me” look she had when she walked in here.
“Eloise,” she fake-sobs. “We’re sisters!”
“We sure are,” I snap. “And that is what you do for your sister. Do you know what I do for mine? I marry a psychopath who has me hit, and who abuses and kills women in front of me, so that YOU can stay the fuck alive!!”
For the first time since she walked in, Camille keeps quiet.
“I don’t owe you anything more than that, Camille,” I say quietly, pointing to the open door.
Wordlessly, unable to meet my eye, she walks out, then turns.
“Eloise—”
“Goodbye, Camille.”
I slam the door. Then I go back upstairs. For another five minutes I hear her knocking. Then, she’s gone.
Who wants a drink?
Alistair has, of course, hidden or possibly thrown away every drop of alcohol in the house. And I’m too nervous about being seen to leave and get some. Delivery is out, because Massimo has access to my accounts and I’m too paranoid about him spotting me having alcohol delivered to Alistair’s home.
So I spend the afternoon watching mindless television, using Alistair’s Peloton bike, taking a long bath, and then reading a book—Hotel New Hampshire, by John Irving, which is one of my favorites.
