Page 101 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I make a small slicing motion with my knife, not that Hugo will understand what I’m reenacting. But he understands who I did it to.

“Your ex?” he grinds out.

Two hours ago, I would’ve loved his fury over what Greg did to me. Now it’s hypocrisy beyond belief.

And fuck, I have to know, even though I might never recover from knowing it.

“What disgusting forum did you upload my masturbation videos to?” I ask it in a controlled voice, but inside I’m in crash position, waiting for the destruction. Another loss of self at the hands of a man.

“Wait.” Hugo’s face blanks. “You’re saying he…”

He pales, and his feet stay planted while every cell in his body strains forward like he wants to comfort me. Comfort me.

“He did that to you?” he says hoarsely. “I’ll dig him up and kill him again. I’ll kill everyone who saw you like that without your permis⁠—”

“You did the same thing, you lunatic!”

“No.”

“You did,” I hiss.

“It was different!” he shouts. “My cameras were for me, to keep you safe. Happy. I never shared you online. I never even watched you like that! I respected your boundaries.”

“Respected my… ?” I laugh. I might laugh forever. This is who I’ve been living next to, and I never saw it. “I’ve been fucking violated, Hugo.”

His rage falls away, leaving behind devastation.

“God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His expression is awful, hopeless and broken and lost. “It’s just that you’re… you’re mine, Rue.”

“What?”

“You’re mine.” He starts talking faster, so desperate to make me understand. “You met me at the mailbox. You came looking for me when I had the concussion. You brought me tea and drank it in my kitchen.” He moves closer, and I let him. “You were with me in Howard Marshall’s closet and Marcus Navarro’s bedroom. You killed that man with me tonight.”

I want to weep. I did do those things. I was with him. I liked him. I more than liked him.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, pressing his right hand to my cheek, mimicking the comforting gesture I gave him when he was concussed and hurting, “but I’ve been painfully, obviously in love with you for five hundred and ninety-eight days. You’re fucking mine, Rue.”

He catches my tear with his thumb, and I lean into his palm. Five hundred and ninety-seven, he said over Daniel Vartan’s body. It’s five hundred and ninety-eight now. He’s still counting. I jerk away with a cry, shoving him back and clamping down on the sob that’s been building in my throat.

“Oh, neighbor guy,” I force out with pure, cold fury. “How could I ever be yours? The whole time you’ve been watching me in secret, you kept me at a distance with your Dr. Mohr bullshit. The glasses and the cardigan and the hair. The fucking hair, Hugo! The smashed-down hair!”

I point my knife at his hair, furious that I know how silky it is when he’s not hiding it from me.

My eyes squeeze shut as I drop my arm to my side. When I open them again, the man in front of me is blurred by my tears.

“I meant what I said. I wanted to come home to you tonight.” With jerky motions, I flip my knife closed and tie the torn halves of Pell’s shirt together. “But wanting you and trusting you aren’t the same thing, Hugo. And I can’t trust you now.”

He lurches forward, reaching for me, but I dodge his hands.

“Get out.”

“No,” he says hoarsely, his eyes pleading. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”

My answering laugh is short and unkind. “You think I care what you want?” I lift my chin, and I find the girl inside of me who always survives. “How about I never want to speak to you again? How about that?”

“Rue—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” I scream. “We’re done. Get. Out.”