“You’re not as indifferent toward her as you want people to believe.”
He stares at me unblinking, his fingers wrapped tightly around his mug to the point I wonder if it’s about to break.
“Why do you hate her?”
“What’s not to hate?”
I roll my eyes. “Why did you go from spending every day with her to hating her existence?”
He falls quiet, and I sigh, assuming he’s not going to answer the question. It was stupid of me to think we could have a serious conversation about this when we never have before.
Damon has made a sport out of avoiding my questions about Chloe, and the fact we’re thirty fucking years old now doesn’t change things.
“She was always better off without me,” he mumbles.
I stare at him for long seconds, wondering if I heard him correctly, but then he continues.
“She saw me kill Matt. I just couldn’t face her after that. Couldn’t see her look at me with disgust for what I’d done.”
“So you started making her life miserable instead?”
He shrugs. “It made it easier.”
“Made what easier?”
This time he doesn’t bother responding. He pushes himself to his feet and leaves the kitchen without a backward glance, leaving me with more questions than I had when I walked in.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHLOE
THEN
TEN YEARS AGO
Time has stopped having any meaning.
Mealtimes are missed, the sun and moon are blocked, and there is no routine I can make sense of.
I tried counting the seconds, but I’m too stressed and kept losing count.
Then I tried singing my favorite song in my head, thinking it might help ease some of the bone-deep panic, but that didn’t work either.
All I can do is watch and wait my turn.
Damon hasn’t been back in for a while, and even when he was here, he never addressed me, but I can’t help but miss his presence.
It’s been years since we could stand being in the same room, and yet during the most stressful days of my life, I can’t help but relax when he steps into the room.
Which is weird, because he’s been actively torturing my father for days…maybe. Like I said, I’ve lost track of time.
Between the hunger and panic, sleep evades me, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.
Dad passes out from time to time, from the pain or the blood loss, I’m not sure, but Mom is just as alert as me, always waiting for the next person to step through the door.
Ever since Ralph stroked himself in front of her face, she hasn’t been able to close her eyes, and I can’t say I blame her. He could come back at any moment, and we would have no way to fight him off.
I press my eyes closed and drag in a deep breath. There are no more tears to cry, but that doesn’t mean the stinging urge isn’t always present.
