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“Horrible people,” I say without hesitation. “The worst humanity has to offer.”
“What did Delilah do?” Raine whispers. Dad looks at me so I can answer.
Whatdidn’tDelilah do?
I’d just finished cookingdinner when Delilah came home from work. She looked exhausted as she dropped her heavy backpackonto the floor by the front door and kicked her shoes off. She was a nurse at the local correctional center and often worked long days and nights.
“Hey, baby,” I greeted her when she walked into the kitchen. We were having burgers and fries, so I'd set our tiny dining table for two with the food and a couple of beers. “How was work?”
Delilah just shrugged and sat down at the table. “Good.”
That was it. She didn’t say anything else or ask how my day was. She never did, and I’d learned how to ignore the twinge of hurt I felt a long time before.
All I ever wanted was to make her life easy, so I made sure dinner was ready and the house was clean by the time she got home. Even though she had her own job, I took care of everything because I didn’t want her to have to want for anything. Not that she ever bothered to help pay the bills, but still—I want to take care of my baby.
I sat down across from her and took a sip of my beer. Her dark brown hair was messy as it fell from the bun she put it in that morning. She was still wearing her coat, and she made sure to hike it up over her neck.
I leaned my elbows on the table and tried to get her attention, but she was so into her phone that she didn’t even seem to notice my existence.
“Lila,” I said harshly.
“I told you not to fucking call me that,” she spit, shooting me a glare as she stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
She walked out of the room before I had a chance to respond. My hands were shaking so badly from anger that I accidentally dropped one of my fries on the floor.
When I bent over to pick it up, I noticed something lying on the floor by Delilah’s chair—a folded piece of paper. I didn’t think much of it, so when I picked it up, I just set it on the tablenext to her plate. But something was nagging at me to open it and see what was inside.
I strained to hear what Delilah was doing in the other room, but I couldn’t hear anything, so I picked up the paper and unfolded it quietly.
It was a letter from someone named Kane. I mostly just skimmed over the writing, because I’d seen everything I needed to see, but when my eyes fell on the drawing of my girl at the bottom of the page, I fucking lost it.
“Delilah! Get your ass in here right now!” I roared as I stormed down the hall to our bedroom. As soon as I opened the door, I was staring down the barrel of a gun.
Delilah’s face was cool and unbothered as she stared at me. I was just about to ask her what the hell was going on when I heard a male voice say, “Shoot him, Delilah.”
I whipped my head towards the bathroom, where a bald man twice my size was standing, glaring at me menacingly.
“Shoot him, Delilah,” he said again, voice full of malice. “Or I will.”
This must be Kane, the prisoner who wrote her the letter. I should have known she was seeing someone else when she stopped having sex with me six months ago. I didn’t want to push it, didn’t want to force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, but it never crossed my mind that she’d been seeing someone else for a whole year.
And not only that, all the money I’d been giving her, all the money she never spent on me, was spent on this asshole. She’d just been using me the whole time we’d been together.
Everything made sense now.
Letting the letter slip from my fingers, I walked towards Delilah until the gun was pressed against my forehead. I didn’t flinch as she dug the cool metal in deeper.
“Give me your wallet, Micah,” she said coldly, acid dripping from her tone.
“It’s in my drawer,” I said without missing a beat, and when Delilah turned her gaze to Kane and nodded in the direction of my side of the bed, I took that chance to grab the gun and twist it out of her hand.
Kane immediately stormed over, but he was on the floor in a second with a bullet in his chest. Delilah screamed and fell to her knees in front of him. She put her hands over the wound to try to stop the bleeding.
Her dark eyes were filled with malice when she screamed, “I fuckinghateyou!”
I raised the gun to her head and put my finger on the trigger. She didn’t beg and plead for her life. Instead, she lay her head down on Kane’s unmoving chest and closed her eyes, coming to terms with her death.
Without a second thought, I pulled the trigger.
