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“No.” I clear my throat. “No, not just the photograph.” I push myself up, Gianni’s hand stroking my back as I move. “My face wasn’t safe anymore.”
“Are you talking about Carl?” Gianni’s hand stops, and I shiver. I nod. Gianni stares at me, his eyes trying to read me. “Are you ready to tell me?”
Am I? It has been so long. I’ve told so many lies I’m not sure what’s the truth anymore. I knew the day would come when I would have to relieve myself of the burden I’ve carried for all these years. But it feels easier telling Gianni. He wasn’t there. He isn’t involved like my family was. If I tell Gianni, will I feel less guilty about Lewis? I doubt it, but I know I must do it. I have to stop dealing with this on my own. It’s time.
“Yes,” I reply. And I am. Of course, I’ve told this story many times to many people, but this is different. This time, I’m ready to tell someone the truth.
One little lie, that’s all it took.
And who were they going to believe?
I didn’t need to change much to convince everyone about what happened in that room. And I’d told it so many times I had convinced myself it was the truth.
I had no choice.
It didn’t quite happen the way I said it did. The fire hadn’t killed him, so I’d settled for the next best thing. My lie sent him to jail and got him out of our lives.
I had no choice.
* * *
“Have you ever smelled burned flesh?” Carl asks. I want to close my eyes, his face illuminated by the tiny flame haunts my vision, and I want nothing more than to kill him. “It has a very distinct smell, depending upon which part of the body is burning. Here, let me demonstrate.”
I inwardly shudder, wondering how he knows this. His ease with the lighter must have come with practice. The flame comes closer to my face, I can feel the heat upon my cheek, and I know it is now or never.
I wrench my arms free, grab the lighter with both hands and move it to the curtains. Carl still holds the lighter, his fingers squeezing it as I hold his hand between mine. The flame burns high, catching the hem of the curtain. I caught him off guard. He doesn’t realize what I’m doing until it’s too late. I don’t let go until I’m sure the material is burning. Carl’s eyes widen. That’s when I punch him.
I set fire to our family home.
I was the one who burned it to the ground.
I was prepared to kill us both to be rid of him.
I don’t know if Carl would have burned my face. I had no hard evidence to present to my parents of Carl’s harassment. What would I have said? All I had was his word against mine. He would have denied everything, I would have caused a lot of trouble, and he would still be in my life and my house.
This way was better.
I got rid of him for good.
I had no choice.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Gianni’s face never changes as the words pour from my mouth. I thought it would be difficult, but for some reason, the whole thing falls into the room with the ease of an upturned box of marbles. But now the room is littered with my past, and I don’t know what Gianni will do.
I clutch the duvet to my chest. My sudden exposure seems heightened after my confession. Gianni sits with his back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling, the only movement that comes from him, and it’s killing me he hasn’t said anything. I’m scared he will run now he sees the real me.
“So, now you know what I am, what I’m capable of, and why it should have been me and not Lewis.” I close my mouth before the tears come. I don’t want him to think I’ll cry to gain his sympathy. I am not that woman. There’s a small silence, the shortest interval before Gianni pushes himself away from the headboard and turns to face me. The question he asks me isn’t what I expect.
“How old were you when this happened?” It’s a little too factual as if he’s a detective, and I worry for a second maybe he is, and all of this has been a ploy. He’s been hired by Carl. He’s working for him, and this whole thing has been a trap to gain my confession. I steady my breathing as my anxiety simmers.
“I was fourteen.” My voice is faint, barely there at all.
“What do you think your friends were doing at fourteen?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this.
“I don’t know. Messing around, I guess.”
“Were they hunting for their mutilated cat?” he snaps. “Were they worried about what obscenity would be written on their locker? Were they living in fear of a boy who was living in the same house as them?” I don’t answer him. “What you fail to see is you were a young girl living with something you shouldn’t have had to deal with. You should have been hanging out with your friends and thinking about boy bands and hair slides.” I raise my eyebrow at him. It is quite clear Gianni has no idea what goes through the head of a fourteen-year-old girl, but I’m relieved about that.
