Page 295 of Trick or Stalk

“It worked.”

Not always. But enough.

“So I kept doing it.”

I tell her about the years after. About Wilder growing old enough to understand. Old enough to become another target.

About never knowing what version of Grant would come through the door.

About the drinking. Money disappearing. Late notices. Utilities threatening to shut off. Foreclosure notices appearing on the door while Grant insisted everything was fine.

She stares at me, horrified.

“Then Mom got sick. Pancreatic cancer.”

Presley's hand rises to her mouth.

“By then I was eighteen. I'd moved out.”

“You got away.”

“For a little while.”

“And Wilder?”

“I tried to take him.” My jaw tightens. “Mom wouldn't let me.”

She was wrong.

And I was wrong for leaving him there.

“Why?”

“She said he needed to stay with her. That Grant would never really hurt him.” I laugh bitterly. “She was wrong.”

I look down.

“I worked. Everything I made went toward Mom. Appointments. Treatment. Medication. Whatever she needed.”

“Grant didn't help?”

“No.” The word comes out hard. “He'd skip appointments. Say he couldn't afford something. Tell her the doctors were wasting her time.”

My hands curl into fists. “Eventually I couldn't afford my place and help her at the same time.

“So you moved back?”

“Yes.”

Back to the house I'd spent years trying to escape. Back under Grant's roof. Where Wilder still lived. Back into survival mode.

“Mom got worse.” I swallow. “Then she died.”

Presley's eyes shine.

I don't want sympathy. Not for this.

“After she died, I was trying to pay for the funeral. Trying to figure out how the fuck we were going to keep the house long enough to bury her without losing everything else.”