“Stop wallowing in self-pity. It won’t save you,” he says.
“I’m not wallowing,” I spit out. “I’m surviving.”
“No, you’re hiding. There’s a difference.” He paces a few feet away, then turns on me. “You need to learn to fight. To befeared.”
I lift my chin, shaking. “You mean you want me to be likeyou?”
“Exactly like me.”
He steps closer, his body heat radiating, but I don’t back down this time. I’m too tired or maybe just too numb.
“I don’t care if you hate me,” he says. “Hate is useful. Pain is useful. What you feel right now? That hollow pit inside you?” He taps his chest, slow and deliberate. “That’s a weapon if you learn how to wield it.” His eyes narrow. “You need to put someone on the ground and make themafraidto get back up.”
He lifts his hand fast, slashing it through the air like a knife.
I jump backward and lift my hands to cover my face, flinching hard.
“You know how to tell if a dog’s been abused?” he asks, his tone disturbingly calm.
“What?” I ask, confused by his sudden change in topic.
“You raise your hand. A dog that’s never been hit? It stares at you, tail wagging. Happy. Trusting.” His voice goes cold. Clinical.
A tendril of dread slithers along the back of my neck. I have an inkling of where he’s going with this, but he can’t know, right? About what happened?
“On the other hand, a dog that’s been kicked, beaten, betrayed?” He lifts his hand again, slowly this time. I stiffen. “That one flinches. They cower. Every time.”
I laugh, brittle and fake. “Let me guess,I’mthe dog in this metaphor?Nice.”
“Why do you move away whenever I raise my hand to you, Laurel? Why do you flinch when I shift too fast or get too close?” Carrson tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he can see right through me. He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back up.
“Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by psychopaths likeyou, or maybe because Samantha tried to kill me yesterday.” I cross my arms over my chest and use my best snarky tone. “Those seem like good reasons to be jumpy.”
A slow shake of his head. “No. You’ve been that way since I met you.”
“You’re imagining things.” I turn my head away, unable to look at him any longer. I don’t want to have this conversation.
Not now. Not ever. Most of all not withhim.
Suddenly, he’s right next to me, his fingers under my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. Carrson whispers, “What happened to you, Laurel Turner? Straight A student. Perfect attendance. Friend to everyone. How did you end up in my town? Beaten down.” He pauses, gives me a long look, and asks, “Who hurt you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My breath has gone shallow. My gaze darts around the room, unable to focus on any one thing.
“Hmm.” He puts his mouth close to my ear. “I don’t believe you.”
I wrench away from him and take a step back.
“I think it has something to do with your senior prom,” he says, his expression tense, rage simmering below the surface. “Who was your date again?”
I’d been so excited. My first prom, and my date was the captain of the basketball team.
My stomach bottoms out. Fear clamps over my body, turning every muscle to stone. “Please, no,” I whisper, my voice hushed.
My begging doesn’t stop Carrson. He carries on like a battering ram. “Oh, yes,” he says with a merciless glint to his eye. “Preston, wasn’t it? Preston Lowe?”
I’m going to throw up. I’m going to black out.
Come on, Laurel. It’ll feel good. Preston shoves my dress up as I sob.
