PROLOGUE
Dahlia
Age 17, Carnesville, Georgia
No one tellsyou what you’re supposed to wear to your ex’s murder trial.
I spent twenty minutes staring at my closet this morning. Agonizing over the choice before finally settling on a plain black sweater and a pair of dark jeans that I hoped would help keep me invisible. Kind of stupid in hindsight, considering it probably doesn’t matter. Everyone in this town recognizes me by now.
The wooden bench creaks beneath me as I take a seat in one of the only open spots left in the courtroom. Dozens of eyes laser their focus on me and, as if on cue, the whispering starts.
I almost didn’t show up today.
After testifying last month, I promised myself I’d never set foot in this place again. But the verdict is in, and staying away just wasn’t an option.
I think I needed to hear it for myself. Needed to know,beyond a shadow of a doubt, thathewouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else again.
Christian sits at the defense table like it’s just another Tuesday for him. His posture is relaxed, his suit is pressed, and his golden-brown hair is styled perfectly, with not even a strand out of place. He looks normal. Sane even. Nothing like the monster he’s proven himself to be.
“That’s her.” A woman behind me whispers. “The girlfriend.”
Ex-girlfriend,I mentally correct,not that it makes a difference to any of these people.
“I still think she put him up to it.” Another woman whispers back. “I know the family. He was a good boy until he met her.”
Swallowing hard, I wrap my fingers around the edge of the bench beneath me and let my nails dig into the thick varnish to try to help ground myself.
I didn’t put Christian up to anything.I know I didn’t.But I can’t help but feel the truth in what she’s saying.
I may not have had any idea what he was planning, but I caused this. I was the catalyst that drove Christian to do what he did that night, and I deserve to carry as much of the blame as he does.
“I don’t know how the hell she lives with herself.” The first woman adds, letting hate radiate from every syllable.
The truth is I don’t.
I breathe, I eat, and I sleep when I can. But I don’t live. I just exist. And honestly, after everything that happened, I’m not sure I even deserve that.
“She doesn’t care.” A man hisses, not even bothering to lower his voice. “They were her parents, for God’s sake, but that didn’t matter to her.”
At the mention of my parents, grief slams into me with such crushing force it nearly knocks the wind out of me. My head drops, and the tears that I’ve been desperately trying to rein in since I got here finally spill over.
Fuck.
I can’t do this. I can’t be here.
It’s too hard. It’s too much.
I shake my head, and my watery gaze drifts to the empty seats beside me. The ones Mom and Dad would be sitting in if it weren’t for me. I can almost feel Dad’s hand patting my knee, in that awkward, stoic way of his. Can almost hear Mom’s lovingly teasing words in my ear.
Don’t cry, Anak. Papangit ka.
Don’t cry, daughter. You’ll get ugly.
A sad smile spreads across my face.
God, I miss them.
And it’s not just their presence that I miss most; it’s all the little things. Their laughs. The ones that were too loud and way too infectious. Their food. No one, and I mean no one, can cook like my dad. Their love. It was never really expressed out loud, and honestly, I used to resent them for that, but now that I know what it feels like to be without it, I know I felt it in everything they did for me.Every fucking thing.
