“After my parents’ death, I went to prison. I was released early on the agreement I’d spend a year in a psychiatric hospital. I did, and it worked wonders for me. It took them a while to get the medication right, but once they did, I was good. I felt good.”
“And then you got out and stopped your pills.”
“I discussed my reasons with Ollie—my friend—first. He works closely with the institute. He thought I could handle it, and I had to get you back. I didn’t have a choice.”
Jolie didn’t respond, still not happy to be here. Still not believing mythe devil you knowphilosophy.
“Anyway, that’s enough talking about me for today. My mood is a little low, and that’s never good.”
I shifted up the bed, to Jolie’s side, and I was glad to see she didn’t move. I put the TV on with a flick of the remote and allowed it to play happy pop music on a low volume setting, silencing the background noise in my head.
Feeling drained and exhausted, I slipped out of my jacket. Nightfall was nearing, and I knew how uncomfortable it would be to sleep with it on.
I reached under my pillow, feeling something digging into my head through the puffy filling. Her Kindle. I pulled it from where she’d wedged it this morning.
“I have more t-shirts in my bag if you’d feel more comfortable sleeping with clothes on. It’s in the closet. Maybe after food, you can give your book another go? I know how you like to escape.”
I smiled, letting her know I accepted her issues.
And accepted her for what she was.
Chapter 9
Jolie—aged eighteen
It had been three days since I’d read the diary. . . two of which, despite my note, Woodrow walked around me like he was stepping on eggshells. The mild paranoia I’d read of, along with a horde of other issues, didn’t seem that mild.
He wished he hadn’t shown me the book that allowed me access to his thoughts.
The smell of regret lingered on his skin more so than his usual scent of darkness and forestry.
“What is that smell?” Nessie’s face scrunched at the repugnance of it.
It wasn’t the regret. . . no, something else in the kitchen was smelling strongly. As usual. And it was awful—stronger than ever before. My face had contorted when I walked into the room, and it took every muscle in my face to force a smile onto my lips, just in case it was Wynter’s cooking—which was getting less appeasing by the day—making the kitchen smell even worse than it always did.
“That’s the bad meat that your father hasn’t brought up from the basement.” Wynter’s fake accent sharpened. She loaded the last of the breakfast bowls onto the kitchen table, where her children and I all sat waiting for her to join us. She fluffed Nessie’s hair with a free hand.
“It’s awful, Momma.”
“It is.”
Wynter shot an evil glare towards her husband, who had his head buried in the fridge, scouting for future snacks. He ignored her actions, along with her jibes. And I ignored that he was in the room, not daring to look at him because his ass crack was peeping out from sagging trousers.
“This house is low on nibbles. Low on good alcohol, too. I can’t have no good alcohol and nibbles.” Ville slammed the fridge door, careening and taking his flat ass from view.
“I’ll open a window.” She moved off, ignoring her husband to release the catch on the window and push it slightly.
Wynter looked very glam for such an early hour, as always. For someone who never left the house, she was always dressed in fancy clothes, her face painted, heels on, clacking over the hard floors as she slipped into her seat. The puffy cushion indenting only slightly under her small weight.
I hadn’t bothered to slip out of my pajamas and into more suitable daytime wear, never mind anything fancy. The last few weeks had taught me that the kids didn’t often bother dressing before the clock struck midday. And Ville never made any effort with his appearance, at all.
I often wondered where Woodrow got his looks. Wynter wasn’t unattractive, but her lips and eyes were different shades to her son’s, different shapes, too. He looked nothing like her.
He looked nothing like Ville.
He looked so beautiful, sitting across the table.
“Say grace, please. . .” Wynter requested, taking her seat, her heavily-lined eyes back on Ville, as he moved to the table.
