Luca caused the accident. Scenes from the crash flash through my mind.
It wasn’t an accident at all. He did it.
I hurry out of my house, not wanting to give him time to show up. And just drive. I have to go somewhere he won’t look. And right now, there’s no place that seems far enough away. Nothing he says will ever make it better. The truth has brought more questions and pain than it was worth.
The entire fucking time. He was lying and manipulating me all along.
My phone rings and I ignore it. When it rings again, I see it’s not Luca. It’s Brooke. I answer as she says, “Can I come over? Micah is so angry at me.”
“No. I’m not home. I can’t do this right now.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you about it later.” I don’t want to say it aloud.
“Okay. Well, Micah isn’t happy at all. I couldn’t tell him the truth and chickened out. He’s so angry. We’re eliminated, and he blames me.”
“It’s just a stupid game.”
“So that means you and Luca are the only team left. You’re in the final round. You win, right?”
This doesn’t feel like winning. “I have to go. I’m done with Mercy. With it all.”
The motel is rough. It’s not in the best area, but they accepted cash and didn’t ask questions. All I wanted was peace and quiet. Just some space to clear my head, hoping once the vial of truth shit wore off, I’d be able to make sense of it. But it’s worse now. Every moment I’ve spent with Luca was a lie that started with him killing my mother.
My phone has barely been on for two seconds when it rings and I see it’s my dad calling.
Ignoring the call, a second later a text from him comes through.
Dad: Where ya at, Ivy Bear?
When I don’t respond after a minute, I get another.
Dad: I asked you a question. I’m your father. Don’t ignore me. I’m worried about you.
The man has never worried about anyone but himself since the day he was born. Why does he want to talk to me?
Dad: Come back home. We need you here. I know I can be an ass, but our home doesn’t work without you in it.
Home? That place isn’t our home. It was a ruse. And right behind the guy who killed my mother.
I dial my father and ask as soon as he answers, “Why did you pick that house?”
“What do you mean?” he stammers.
“Thathouse. Belgrave? Why? There’re tons of homes on the market how did we wind up there?”
“It was the best location for the price. Why are you asking?”
He’s lying. There’s no way it’s a coincidence. “I don’t believe you.”
His frustration increases with every word as he rants, “I give you everything and you don’t appreciate any of it. Nothing I do is ever good enough. You really are her daughter.”
The phone disconnects. There’s something about his statement that makes me question if I really am.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling for I don’t know how long until I finally give in and close my eyes. There’s no point in avoiding sleep or my nightmares. The one I’m in when I’m wide-awake is worse.
80
