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PROLOGUE
THE COLD FLOOR is hard and unforgiving against my face, and the hand in between my shoulders is unrelenting. Fin was a surprise, but this is unbelievable, I can’t believe she deceived me for so long. I would never have imagined she was one of the bad guys, she may even be worse than Dante. How is that even possible?
He is sociopathic and untouched by his actions, he lacks empathy and sympathy and I can understand that. It made him the perfect person to torment and destroy me, but he failed so she stepped in.
Why is she worse? Because she’s like me, she can feel all these pesky emotions and yet they do not affect her decisions or actions. The pain and terror I’m feeling excite her, I think her own confliction over what to do with me only spurs her to go harder at my so-called punishment.
Do I deserve this? A year ago, I would have said yes, but now I know that was my self-hatred. I lacked self-worth and saw myself as the villain within my story. That is no longer the case, I am worthy of love and forgiveness and the only way I could come to that conclusion was by learning to forgive myself and forgive Elliott.
“I liked you Henleigh, if only you hadn’t been a Monterey. Out of friendship I’ll offer you a quick death, all you have to do is take responsibility for your family’s crimes,” so much warmth and sweetness within her voice, like homemade fudge before it cools. My so-called friend, the one I never thought I’d have to watch. Oh, how she deceived us all. Even if I somehow beat the odds and make it through this. How can I possibly ever trust again?
“Why are you doing this? Was your whole persona nothing but fiction?? I never thought you would be the villain in this tale.” I say against concrete, working my wrists into a bloody mess, trying to slip the rope that’s binding them together.
“This isn’t some silly little book! its real life and people have to be held accountable for their actions. Your brother is dead, the lucky git, so you must stand in his place,” she’s brushing her free hand over my hair, removing it from my face. I feel sick. “Everything you thought you knew about me is correct but didn’t anyone ever tell you that there are two sides to the same coin. It all depends on the luck of a flip which version you will see when the spinning ends. Looks like your luck ran out,” she still has the sugar sweet voice, but her eyes are as wild as an unrelenting storm. Maybe she will be the end of me and no one will ever know.
ONE
IT’S funny the places my mind flashes to when I’m in a state of panic. Like sending me back to my thirteen year old self when the taunting went beyond cheese girl, loser, all brain and no heart. I remember Caden, my first crush when we moved to Lincoln, and he turned around and said, “You look like you fell down the stairs and hit every one on the way.” I don’t even know why I’m thinking about this, but it is distracting me from the pain and the irony that I hit every step that laid before me on the cold, hard ground of their basement. Correction my basement. I mean this is the house where me and Elliott grew up, I bet I know every nook and cranny better than they ever will.
I wonder if this is part of the torture, keeping me locked in my family home. The only place I have any happy memories outside of Padstow, and where the most painful memory will always lie.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear smoke filled this room, but it’s nothing more than my fog addled mind from how many hits it took from the hard, opposing concrete.
I feel like they have run me over with a bulldozer and it’s ridiculous, I can barely pick myself up from the ground. How am I supposed to get out of this one?
The door is creaking open and I can’t bring myself to lift my head and the warm, viscous liquid pooling around me and matting in my hair is making me feel woozy and like I’m floating on air. Should I be worried by how disconnected I feel right now?
Heavy footsteps fall upon the stairs, as a cloud of grit and dust fans out and coats me in a light layer. Lifting my head is a task in itself, I wonder if this is how it feels to lift a cannonball with your own bare hands? A light is shining down from the doorway and basking in a soft glow. It’s almost angelic the way the light halos around him, Elliott.
“Let’s get you up,” he says, his voice soft and I can hear a smile in his voice, he must be happy to see me too.
“Elliott,” I breathe out, a smile pulling painfully at my lips. Only splitting them further and making more blood slide down my face and neck.
“Sure, whatever you say,” his voice has a strange lilt to it, he doesn’t sound like the Elliott I know. “Come on brownie, let's get you lying down. We don’t want you keening over too soon now do we?” I can’t stop staring at him, as my fingers glide over his face, but it keeps morphing. Changing from the angelic sight that my heart craves more than life itself, to a demon with fire for eyes.
The sleeping bag surrounds me as he lays me down and stands above me, doing nothing more than staring at me.
“My nana would hate me to leave a girl like this, but I think she’ll forgive me just this once. You should have stayed in your house and let the fire consume you, being burnt alive will feel like a luxury holiday by the time we’re done with you,” Fi
