And she hates it.
I can see it in every picture.
She didn't pick these clothes. I'd bet my life on it.
Jack picked them. Jack styled her like a doll and paraded her around and posted pictures like he was showing off a new car.
My thumb hovers over a photo from two years ago. Some charity event, looks like. Jack's arm is wrapped around Kristen's waist, his hand splayed possessively over her hip. He's grinning at the camera. She's looking slightly to the side, that fake smile plastered on, eyes empty.
His grip on her looks tight. Too tight.
The rage that floods through me is irrational. Unprofessional. Completely fucking inappropriate.
I want to find Jack Walker. I want to break every finger on the hand that touched her. I want to make him understand exactly what happens to men who treat women like possessions in my city.
The phone creaks in my grip.
Stop.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
This isn't my problem. Kristen isn't my problem.
But I can't stop staring at her face in these photos. At the woman underneath the makeup and the tight dresses and the fake smiles. At the ghost of the person she must have been before Jack Walker got his hands on her.
She covers herself now. Hides under layers. Makes herself invisible.
Because he made her visible in all the wrong ways.
I close Instagram and set the phone face-down on the desk.
It doesn't help. Her image is burned into my brain. That red dress. Those empty eyes. Jack's hand on her hip like he owned her.
Not your problem, I tell myself again.
But my hands are still shaking with the urge to hit something.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kristen
The smell of burnt coffee hits me before I even open my eyes.
Mom's here early. That's never good.
I drag myself out of bed, checking on Lily still curled around Sir Floppington the Third in her toddler bed. Her chest rises and falls in that perfect rhythm only sleeping children have. I press a kiss to her forehead and slip out of our shared bed. I put on my clothes and step out of the bedroom.
Mom stands at my kitchen counter, pouring coffee into my one good mug—the one without chips. She's dressed for church even though it's Tuesday. Pearls. Pressed blouse. Judgment radiating off her like cheap perfume.
"Morning," I say, moving past her to check the time.
"I spoke to Jack last night."
My hand freezes on the cabinet door. Of course you did.
"He's worried about you, Kristen." Mom sets the coffee pot down with a careful click. "He said he wants to help. He offered to loan you money until you get back on your feet."
A laugh escapes me.
