“My father, I guess. He’s the one who told me what happened. He didn’t deserve it, but I was angry at him becausehe was the one who told me.” She opens her eyes, meeting my gaze. “Lucky I wasn’t strong then.”
“You’re definitely strong now,” I say, moving my jaw from side to side. The ache tells me this is going to leave a mark.
“Are you okay?” she asks with genuine concern in her voice. She reaches out, her fingers ghosting over the bruised area on my cheek.
Her touch sends electricity through my body. It takes every ounce of self-control not to lean into her hand, to capture it and press it against my skin. I want to pull her close, to caress every inch of her until the fear and pain are forgotten. I want to hold her in my arms and never let go.
But I can’t. I shouldn’t.
“I’m fine,” I say instead, forcing a smile. “It takes more than a punch to take me down. Even if it’s your iron fist.”
I’ve been sitting in my car for an hour, staring at the building across the street. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. What am I doing here?
I’m courting trouble.
I should turn back, not lurk outside this bastard’s house, planning twenty different ways to end his life. But that’s exactly what I’m doing. I imagine choking him with my bare hands, watching the life drain from his eyes, or putting a bullet between them, swift and final.
Walking away is the right move, but instead, I step out of the car and march toward the house. The night air is coolagainst my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of rage burning inside me.
I knock on the door, pressing myself against the rough brick wall to avoid being seen through the peephole.
“Hello, Arlo,” I say as the door swings open. I don’t wait for a response, barging in. Arlo’s eyes widen, and he raises his hands, trying to stop me.
“You’re trespassing. This is my property. What are you doing here?” he shouts, his voice bordering on hysteria. Good. Fear makes people sloppy.
“You sent messages to Cora,” I growl, advancing until Arlo’s back is against the wall. He blinks, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal. I press my forearm against his throat, applying pressure.
“What? What are you talking about?” He shakes his head, but he can’t escape my grip.
I study his face, searching for signs of deception. “You sent her threatening messages. Did you just want to scare her, or did you intend to hurt her?”
“I didn’t send her any messages, and I don’t intend to hurt her. What are you talking about?” His face reddens, veins bulging in his forehead.
“I saw you last time. You tried to force yourself on her.” I remember Cora screaming in fear, Arlo grabbing her, and I increase the pressure on his throat.
“No,” he chokes out. “That’s not what happened there, I just grabbed her hand. And she broke up with me. We’re not together anymore. Why would I send her messages? You’re choking me. I can’t breathe.”
I stare into his eyes. I’m not sure if he’s lying or just terrified of me.
He coughs again, his face now a brightred. A few more minutes, and he’ll be unconscious. A few minutes after that, he’ll be dead. The idea is tempting, too tempting.
“Give me your phone,” I demand, releasing my hold and stepping back, hand outstretched. “Now.”
“No,” he gasps, clutching his throat with both hands and coughing.
“If you want me to believe your story, give me the phone.”
“You tried to kill me,” he wheezes, still holding his throat.
“No, I didn’t. If I had tried, I would have succeeded,” I say. “The phone. Now.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. I snatch it from his hand, holding it up to his face to unlockit, then scroll through his messaging app. “Where are your messages to Cora?” I look up, eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you have any messages to her?”
“We broke up,” he says, voice hoarse.
“And?” I tilt my head, waiting.
“So I blocked her number and deleted all the messages and pictures I had with her.”
