“Are you satisfied now?” I ask, my voice husky with unshed tears.
He picks my expression apart, but I’m too exhausted to doanything else but let him.
He cocks his head inquisitively. “Do you know why I hated you as a kid?”
I sigh heavily, but it does nothing to alleviate the weight on my chest or the ache in my heart.
“Because I supported my dad,” I answer robotically.
His grin is humorless. “No, darling. Because everyone supportedyou.”
I nod, accepting that. “They did,” I agree simply. “The entire world said you were a liar and then showered us with sympathy, and defended us against what they believed to be a misguided accusation.”
He hums, appearing almost amused by my answer. “Did you like it? All their attention?”
“I didn’t understand it.”
He nods slowly, his stare scrutinizing. “Did it make your life easier?”
I shrug. “It didn’t make it harder. And that’s the point, right? You suffered, I didn’t, so now you’re here to make me suffer.”
Again, he studies me for a few beats, but whatever he’s thinking is locked behind an impenetrable fortress.
“Do you know why I hate you now?”
I frown. “I didn't realize there was a difference between then and now.”
“Kids grow up, baby,” he says, his tone mocking. “Supporting your daddy as a little girl makes sense. Supporting him and staying silent while his victims’ families fight for justice as an adult doesn't.”
“Idon'tsupport him,” I growl.
“Really?” he challenges. “Last I checked, you showed support up until your last interview when you were eleven, and you’ve never publicly stated otherwise since.”
“Oh, so I have to say it to the world for it to be true?”
He points at me, and snarls, “That'swhy. Right there, Reverie. Your self-preservation is more important than validating his fucking victims. You would rather stay silent and let the world think I put away an innocent man than tell the fucking truth.”
“What would my belief in you change?” I argue, splaying out my hands.
“Everything!” he shouts.
I flinch, and he inhales through his nose deeply, calming himselfwhile I grapple with my scattered thoughts.
“If his own daughter believed he’s who I said he was, imagine how many minds you could change,” he says quietly, conviction creating the slightest tremble in his voice. “And when Lionel loses support, he loses his power.”
My expression is pained as I say, “That won't make evidence against him suddenly appear, and he still won't be charged and convicted for those murders without it.”
“No. But if enough people believe it, it would make it a lot harder for Lionel to make parole if it's believed he's a danger to society. And if Lionel knows he's never getting out, then maybe he'll want the notoriety enough to confess. Even with the copycat murderer, he’s too much of a narcissist to let someone else take all the credit. That fucker would rather die than rot in prison while some other sick fuck getshisglory.”
My heart shrivels, and in this moment, I've never felt like a bigger coward.
Because he's right.
Idohave self-preservation, and it's that very self-preservation keeping my teeth glued rather than admitting the truth.
It's too late.
Lionel could already be free.
