Not just him.
Not just Whitney.
All of it.
The past we buried doesn’t stay buried.
Phillip smiles then, slow and deliberate, something dark and satisfied settling into his expression as he watches the realization take hold.
“You’re sick,” I say quietly, the words scraping against the tightness in my chest. “You’re a monster.”
“And you’re not thinking clearly,” he replies, his voice flat now, stripped of any pretense. “You’re letting grief and guilt distort reality. I would suggest you take a step back and think very carefully about what you do next.”
The calmness in it is worse than anger.
I don’t trust myself to respond, not without giving him something he can use, so I turn away instead, forcing my legs to move even as everything in me feels unsteady. I cross the yard quickly, the distance between us stretching with each step, but his presence lingers, heavy and inescapable.
I won’t let him see me break.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
But as I reach the back door, my hand hesitates on the handle, and I feel it then, the fracture running beneath everything, the doubt he planted taking root whether I want it to or not.
Am I certain?
Am I remembering this clearly?
Or is he right?
No.
I close my eyes briefly, forcing the thought down before it can grow any stronger.
I know what I read.
I know what I saw.
I know what Whitney was trying to tell me.
I will not let him take that from me.
I push the door open and step inside, but before I close it, I glance back over my shoulder.
He’s still there.
Watching.
That same faint, knowing smile still in place.
I hate him.
Not in the way people say it lightly, not in passing, but in a way that feels rooted, permanent, something that settles deep and refuses to move.
But I won’t let him break me.
Not now.
