The worst part isn't that they chose to believe him over me. The worst part is that they're probably sitting in Gabriel's kitchen right now, feeling guilty and confused and hurt because of secrets I kept.
Because I wasn't brave enough to trust them with the truth until it was too goddamn late.
A single tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it. Just one. I won't give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing me break completely.
But uncle Richard notices anyway. He always does. It's like he has a sixth sense for weakness, for the exact moment when someone's about to shatter.
"Crying already?" His voice is soft, almost amused, like he's watching a mildly entertaining show. "I haven't even gotten to the good part yet."
I turn to look at him, this man who's been the architect of my misery. In the dim interior of the SUV, his face is all sharp angles and satisfied smirks.
"You always were so dramatic, Lucinda," he continues, settling back in his seat like he's preparing for a scenic drive through the countryside. "Even as a child, you had such a flair for theatrics. Must have gotten it from your mother."
"I'm not being dramatic." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm grieving."
"For what? Three men who couldn't wait to be rid of you?" He laughs, the sound sharp and cutting.
Dr. Harrison and Nurse Wells sit in the front seats like silent accomplices, their backs rigid with the kind of tension that comes from knowing you're doing something wrong but doing it anyway.
"Are we going back to Rosewood?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer. The highway stretches ahead through ranch country, fence posts and cattle dotting the landscape like something out of a Western movie.
"That's the interesting part," Uncle Richard says, and there's something in his tone that makes my skin crawl like spiders. " I've decided that particular approach has run its course."
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm afternoon sun slanting through the windows. "What do you mean?"
"It's time for a more permanent solution."
The words hit me like ice water in my veins. "What are you talking about?"
"Think about it, Lucinda. You have a documented history of mental illness, suicide attempts, self-harm. You've been off your medications for two years, living rough in God-knows-where, clearly unstable."
He spreads his hands like he's laying out a business proposal at a board meeting. "No one would be surprised if you finally succeeded in hurting yourself. An overdose, maybe. Or something more dramatic, if you're feeling theatrical."
My blood turns to arctic cold. "You're talking about killing me."
"I'm talking about what's best for everyone involved. This could have been settled a long time ago, if your mother hadn’t decided at the last minute to stay at home, she would have been in the car with your father." he says with the casual tone of someone discussing cattle prices.
"My father," I whisper. "You said it was an accident."
His smile turns predatory. "Did I? How careless of me."
"You killed him." It's not a question. The pieces are falling into place now, forming a picture so horrific I can barely process it.
"Your father was weak," Richard says dismissively. "Soft. He would have run the family business into the ground within a decade. Someone had to think about the future."
"He was your brother."
"He was an obstacle." Uncle Richard's voice carries no more emotion than if he were discussing the weather. "Just like you are now."
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists, trying to stop the tremors, but it's useless. "And my mother?"
"Ah, Margaret." He sighs like he's remembering an old friend. "I was going to handle her the same way, but then she got sick. Cancer is so much more natural than car accidents, don't you think? I just had to wait."
"You let her suffer. You watched her die slowly and did nothing to help."
"I did everything I could," he says with mock sincerity. "I even helped arrange for her teenage daughter to be her primary caregiver. Such a touching story of family devotion."
The cruelty of it takes my breath away. He didn't just let my mother die. He orchestrated my suffering too.
