Page 296 of Trick or Stalk

I look at Presley.

“And things stopped making sense.”

“What things?”

“The money.”

Dad hadn't left us rich. But he'd left something. Enough that the constant threats of foreclosure shouldn't have happened the way they did. Enough that Wilder and I should've had something when we became adults.

“So I started looking.”

Presley leans forward.

“And I found out Grant had taken it.”

Her face hardens.

“He stole your inheritance?”

“Mine and Wilder's.”

“What did he do with it?”

“Gambled.”

“Jesus.”

“He lost most of it.” I pause. “Then he got lucky.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“He won it back. And then some.”

Her face changes. “And he didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“He let your mother⁠—”

“Yes.” I don’t let her finish. I can’t. Because that's the part that still makes my vision go red.

“He let Mom think we had nothing. Let me work myself into the fucking ground trying to pay for treatment. Let the bills pile up. Let Wilder live in a house with foreclosure notices stuck to the door.”

“Hades.”

“He had the money.” My voice goes quiet. “All that fucking time, he had it.”

I can still remember confronting him. The smell of alcohol. That smug smile. The things he said about Mom. About how pathetic she was. How expensive she became. How she would've died anyway.

Presley's face pales. “What did you do?”

I look directly into her eyes.

This is it. The part where I stop choosing which version of me she gets.

“I killed him.”

She doesn't move.