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Daisy
“I have a pull-out sofa,”Tom says when the door closes behind us. “I’d give you the bed, but I know you’d argue, so you can take the sofa.”
“What? No.”
“You will take the bed? Excellent.”
I glare at him. “I meant no to going back to your place.”
“Not like that.”
“I know. You’re inviting me to stay with you so I won’t be near Liam in case he tries something. Whatever you think of Celeste, she’s hardly going to let him accost me under her own roof, and I’m hardly going to let him accost me. I’m not helpless. But those are moot points because Liam was, as Celeste said, just being an ass. His so-called suggestion was aimed at her, and insulting me was just a bonus because, again, he’s an asshole.”
“I want you to come back—”
“Are you even listening to me, Tom? No, you’re not, because you don’t actually give a shit.”
“Excuse me?” He moves close enough that I need to lock my knees not to back away. “I’m concerned for you. That’s the definition of giving a shit.”
“I mean you don’t give a shit what I think about the situation.” I meet his gaze. “You and Celeste did something after I walked away. Liam caught you. He’s being a passive-aggressive jerk about it, and I got caught in the crossfire, and you feel bad about that. So to make yourself feel better, you want to protect me. Forget what I want. This is about you.”
“It’s not—” He bites off the word with a sharp shake of his head. He seems to chew over his choices, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, softer. “He didn’t catch us doing anything, Daisy. Not like that. We were just—”
“Don’t care.”
His jaw works. “I’m trying to explain—”
“And I don’t actually care. I’m annoyed at getting caught up in it, but I blame him, not you or Celeste. I will deal with this.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I will. Now, good night, Tom.”
He stands there, eyes blazing. Then he stalks off.
I understand why Tom lashed out, but something about it still bothers me. I remember him rubbing his eyes. Blinking. He didn’t think he’d had anything to drink. What if Celeste gave me a scotch and soda, too? But wouldn’t Tom have noticed the taste?
Maybe I’m making excuses for him. I should go back inside the house and talk to him tomorrow. Instead, I stand there, watching the road long after he’s gone. Then I go after him.
Celeste
Liam has retreated upstairs with an ice pack. I watch out the window as Daisy goes after Tom. She’ll be back. This isn’t the sort of scene where the girl chases the angry guy and ends up staying the night. I doubt she’ll even make it as far as his place before second-guessing and turning back.
And what if she doesn’t?
Well, then, despite having launched my plot, I won’t be able to carry it through.
I should be furious at that, and yet a small part of me is relieved.
I won’t need to kill Liam tonight.
Oh, I definitely want him dead. I’m just not sure I can do it, and that’s worse than changing my mind and deciding he doesn’t deserve to die, because this is weakness. My weakness. I lack the guts to go through with it.
I remember the night Jasmine died, Mom saying I couldn’t have done it—not because I wasn’t a monster who’d bully a girl to death, but because I lacked the strength, lacked the initiative, lacked the fortitude.
Seems you were right, Mom.
No, I won’t let her be right. I’m not a monster who’d hold an innocent girl underwater, but I am a woman who will kill her jailer rather than run again. A woman who doesn’t mind framing another woman for the crime, not when that woman will bolt and escape, and even if she doesn’t, well, she isn’t an innocent like Jasmine.
