Her parents sided with her rapist? “What did your Dad say?”
“He believed me at first.” The corner of her lip tugs in the faintest of smiles. “He was ready to kill Brent. He demanded that Brent come over and explain himself. Of course, Brent lied and said we’d both been drinking. That I’d come onto him. He said I’d stripped out of my clothes when he was in the bathroom, and when he came back downstairs, I was lying down with my legs up in the air. He told them I said he could pick which hole. The next morning, he said he wasn’t ready to take our relationship to the next level and go fully public, so I flipped out and said I’d tell everyone he’d raped me.” Daphne winces, and she shakes ever so slightly in my arms. “I’d never…”
“I believe you.” My arms tighten around her, wishingthat I could soothe her somehow. I want to ask ‘How could he do something like that?’ but I’m not naïve, and Daphne shouldn’t shoulder the responsibility of answering a question like that. Brent’s the type of person used to getting his way and knows how to manipulate people. He didn’t become the country's youngest senator by sheer luck. No, he’s conniving and sneaky. Daphne was collateral damage to him.
She clears her throat. “After Brent said that stuff, Dad believed him. Then Dad accused me of trying to sabotage another man’s career because I couldn’t handle rejection. Mom encouraged him and made it so much worse.”
A tear slips down Daphne’s cheek until it stops at her chin. “I thought someone would believe me. But my parents threatened to cut me off if I told anyone. They couldn’t have a story like that leaked to the public right before Dad announced his run for a second term. Now everything’s been about his fucking campaign. I was too upset to do anything, so I shut down. I stayed in my house and read books about guys who don’t act like Brent. It was the only way I could survive those first few months.”
Daphne sniffles. My fingers brush aside the tears streaking along her damp cheeks. “When I finally felt human again, I adopted Hawkeye. Someone who would love me totally, and I could devote my full attention to and love back.”
I murmur into her hair. “I’m so sorry no one believed you. And I’m sorry your parents didn’t stand up for you.”
It’s moments like this when I wish Dad were still alive. He’d be the type of man to believe Daphne. He was always strong and protective, especially over Tessa. To have a parent who doesn’t defend you but instead shames and blames you… It’s so vile that I can’t fully comprehend it.
“Why do you still talk to them? It’s horrible the way they treat you.” Sure, she doesn’t need me stating the obvious, but I wonder if it’s obvious to her. How could someone tolerate being the emotional punching bag for not just one but both parents?
“Money, mostly,” she admits with a sniffle. “And it wasn’t always so bad growing up, you know. Dad and I had a little nightly ritual growing up. After dinner, he’d put on M*A*S*H* and have a beer. He’d make me a glass of chocolate milk, and we’d sit down and watch two episodes before bed. That’s the Dad I remember when I think about him. Like, somewhere deep down in there is a father who loved his kids. I don’t even recognize him these days. Hell, sometimes I wonder if I made those memories up.”
The pinks of her tear-filled eyes rim the bright blue irises. My heart aches from the pain clouding her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again as I press a kiss to her forehead. I’m so much more than sorry, but this moment isn’t about me, and I can’t find the words to express what I’m feeling right now. Anger. Sadness. Hatred. A loathing so deep it scorches my bones. And gratitude. Grateful that Daphne felt safe enough to finally open up and tell me about her past. “I’m sorry it took me this long to do anything about Brent. I’m sorry I drugged you. I’msofucking sorry, Daph.”
My voice cracks, and tears burn the corners of my eyes. I blink them away, but she still sees them.
“You didn’t know.”
That fact doesn’t absolve my guilt.
I don’t know what I can do to make things right for her, but maybe fulfilling my broken promise is a step towards helping her heal. I can give that to her at least.
“I’ll take care of Brent. Tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
Tessa is a genius.I should start paying her—not like she doesn’t have access to billions of dollars with a few clicks of a button. But still, slipping her a twenty here or there would be a nice gesture.
Tapping my phone, I follow the sequence she provided, and a surge blackens the street and kills the electricity. I ease my car into a parking spot, my headlights the only lights on the entire street. Grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat, I quickly hurry up the driveway to Brent’s house, a McMansion with three stories plus a basement that, if the real estate website is accurate, was renovated into a home gym and movie theater.
I unlatch the side gate and duck into the backyard. As I make my way around to the back door, I follow the next sequence on my phone to disable his security system. Then recover power to the street before anyone starts causing a commotion because their central air system is shut off in August.
I twist the doorknob of Brent’s back door, but it doesn’t budge. Plucking my lock pick kit from my back pocket, ittakes me less than a minute before the lock opens. Relief sweeps through me now that I’m inside. Getting inside is the hardest part of a job. Too many unknown variables. What if a neighbor thinks now is the perfect time to walk Toto around the block while a man in a mask breaks into an upscale house?
Police respond quicker in wealthy neighborhoods.
But I make it into the back of the house and quietly shut the door behind me, the knob slipping just slightly in my oversized gloves. The swanky kitchen is decked out in steel and black accents. Fancy fuck. He probably doesn’t even know how to use the oven. I’d bet he has a private chef—the place stinks of money and Creed Adventus cologne.
Water trickles from upstairs, along with My Chemical Romance singing about scary teenagers. Tessa loved that emo shit when she was in high school, and she was obsessed with that band. I used to tease her about the posters in her bedroom—the goth boys she adored and the black eyeliner that made them look like they’d been punched in the face.
The idea of her having something in common with Brent Sokolov—even if it's just appreciation for MCR—makes my blood boil. Brent doesn’t deserve to listen to the same music as my sister. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Daphne.
Men like him don’t deserve to live.
Careful not to make noise, I lower my duffel bag onto the kitchen counter to retrieve a baseball bat, zip ties, and a pair of police-grade handcuffs.
Quietly, I ease my way up the stairs toward the master bedroom. A block of light illuminates the hallway wall from an open bedroom door; the rest of the hallway is dim. I’dhoped Brent would be asleep, but catching the fucker naked in his shower is poetic justice.
