“No one knows you call me that, Lionel. No one else who's still alive,anyway.”
There's no hiding the bitterness in my tone as I say the last part.
He’s quiet for a beat.
“You don’t know that,” he says vaguely.
“Ido,” I argue through gritted teeth. “Just like I know you made that fake dating profile and kidnapped Mindy Sackler. You left a note in my dorm telling me to come back to Silent Mist with her hair clip, and when I didn’t and you saw my transfer papers, you trashed my dorm and gave me a lock of hair and an article about what a great father you are. I’ve already accepted you’re a psychopath, Lionel. The least you could fucking do is not pretend like you aren’t and actually give a shit about anyone.”
The sheer amount of adrenaline surging through my veins should be deadly. I’m trembling, and my heart is racing, but there’s an odd sense of calmness, too. A focus that stills any erratic thought and allows me to home in on him and him alone.
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never do any of those things to you,” he says earnestly, almost sounding hurt.
God, I don’t know how I never noticed it, even as a child. He just sounds so… empty. Even when he’s trying to infuse emotion into his voice, it sounds so wooden and unnatural. Or maybe it’s only obvious to those who know better and can see beneath the façade. Truthfully, his charm is a mirage, and the moment you get too close, the illusion fractures, and it’s impossible to see anything but reality.
“Is Mindy Sackler dead?” I ask bluntly.
“I don’t even know who that is.” The words are broken with exasperation, like he’s in such disbelief he’s being questioned like this.
I let out a humorless chuckle as I shake my head, realizing I’m only wasting my time and breath.
Why would he admit to anything over the phone? He’s too paranoid and calculated, and probably thinks I’m recording the call. Or maybe even have someone else listening in. It’s something he would’ve considered before he even dialed my number, and he won’t break character, no matter what I say or do.
“Sweetie, listen, Idowant you to come back home to see me. You mentioned transfer papers, but please tell me that isn't true. Not when I’ve only just gotten home.”
I glance at Dread. “It is true.”
He lets out a scoff, still sounding hurt. “You can’t at least visityour father after almost a decade of not seeing me? I hate that you’ve been alone all these years. Your mom—” I squeeze my eyes shut, a sharp ache blooming in my chest. “—she had her struggles with depression before you came around, but she always wanted kids. And she was happy, until she wasn’t.”
Until I killed my little brother, he means.
“What she did on your birthday… it was selfish. She left you all alone, and I can’t stand that.”
Derision twists my features.
“It wasn't selfish,” I snap. “If she were truly selfish, she would've done it the day you were sentenced. She had the strength to wait until I wouldn't have to go into foster care, and that was the most selfless thing she could've done. She lived in misery so I could have somewhat of a childhood, despite your best efforts to fuck it all up.”
I may hold a lot of resentment for my mother and how she treated me, but… not for that. Not for when I was four, and not for when I turned eighteen.
He's quiet for a few moments, and my chest and throat are burning from rage.
“You're right, I'm sorry,” he says.
Funny thing about Lionel—if you pay really,reallyclose attention, you can hear how hollow emotion sounds in his voice, a pretty mask with nothing real beyond it. He's not dead inside.
He's just empty.
He sighs, as if he's upset with himself. “Listen, Angel, my point is—we only have each other left now, and I want to fix this between us. Put everything behind us, start fresh, rebuild, and go back to the way things were before that boy targeted me.”
Dread’s instantly flying to his feet, startling me and sending my heart into my throat. A thunderous expression blackens his features, dilating his eyes until there isn’t a trace of blue remaining. He's already readjusted his joggers while I'm still naked.
I tuck my legs into my chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable. I attempt to make myself as small as possible, but there isn’t a single place for me to hide.
Clearing my throat, I rasp, “That’s not going to happen, Lionel. I’m not confused, and I want you to stay away from me. Just… just stay in California, or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re violating parole.”
His silence is heavy. It feels as if the bugs I once thought infested our house are actually inside me, burrowing beneath my skin and crawling along my nerves. The discomfort builds until I can’t stand it anymore. I need to move, to do something other than wallow in it.
Desperate to escape it, I stand and hurry over to the dresser, setting the phone on top of it before pulling open the drawer Dread cleared out for me. I grab a new pair of underwear and quickly slip them on, then snatch up my clothes scattered across the floor. Forgoing my bra, I slip on my red T-shirt, quickly pulling on my jeans, while Dread glares at my phone resting on the dresser.
