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I step around her, and she catches my arm, tears filling her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Billie,” she mutters.
“Get your hands off me.” I shake my arm free and glare at her as the first tear falls.
“Your father is not the man you think he is. His crimes toward us existed long before this disaster.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I don’t want to know.
“Just leave me alone.”
I walk away, passing Cal as I head down the hallway. He doesn’t say anything to me.
I’m glad he never gets involved when Mom and I argue.
He gives me a look of sympathy that pinches my heart, and I hate it because, in that look, I see understanding—something I desperately need but don’t want from him.
I head to my room and lock the door.
They should leave me alone for the rest of the evening.
I throw myself down on the bed, and Mom’s words suddenly fill my head.
His crimes toward us existed long before this disaster.
Dad was the loving father. Until now, he never did anythingthat mademe think badly of him.
Sure, like most men in high-profile jobs, he was busy and working a lot, but he made up for his absence when we were together. He took us on vacations to beautiful, exotic places and even took time off two summers ago to go to Rwanda with me. We both volunteered at the children’s hospital and had the most magical experience ever.
More than anything, he was the reason I bounced back after my horrible ordeal as a child. Mom fell apart when she discovered I was raped.
Raped.
Me.
She wasn’t there for me because apparently, she blamed herself. She was too consumed with not being able to see that devil for who he was.
His name was Jack. He was someone Dad worked with who became a family friend.
Someone killed him shortly after his last assault on me. Until this day, no one knows who killed him.
I kept every encounter quiet because he threatened to kill my parents, but that last time was so bad I couldn’t stop bleeding. Of course not. I was fucking nine years old. It went on for over a year, but that last time was brutal.
Mom found blood on the sheets the next morning and thought I got my period.
When she noticed bruises on my body, I burst out crying, and she took me to the doctor.
That’s how the truth came out.
It turned out the motherfucker was obsessed with my mother, and when he couldn’t have her, the psycho came after me because I look like her.
That’s why I hate any reference to our resemblance.
I straighten and stare at my computer.
It’s time.
Time to take the next step, time to demoralize myself, time to find my path to freedom.
