Page 27

“Not this time.”

And for the first time, those words belong to me.

“You made me feel like I was going crazy.” I stop, and Max looks up at me, slightly worried, and I hate this; he shouldn’t have to check if I’m okay.

“You made everyone around me think I was messing it up,” I voice, breaking, and a single tear slides down my cheek.

“I told you no, and you kept going because you knew I couldn’t do anything.” All the things I have ever wanted to say to him, and it’s now, after all these years.

“You know you used to abuse me in school, and then I would go home and get abused by my dad. I couldn’t escape it.” I raise my voice, and his eyes bloom harshly.

Why don’t you fucking care?

Max pushes him to the ground, and I kneel in front of him, gripping my hand of what little hair he had.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, and there isn’t a thing you can do.

“I was a child.” His voice shakes, and those words make me feel so fucking angry.

“You were a child, so was I, and I didn’t ask for you to do what you did,” I shout, louder than I anticipated.

“You don’t get off because you were a child, no means no, and that isn’t something you don’t learn growing up.” I want to shoot him right now. I don’t want to drag this out, and I know other people would make their abusers suffer, but I never had a plan for seeing him again. I was seventeen when I was last forced to see him after I cut everyone off who had any connection, and I stopped telling people because no one ever believed me. Still to this day, this is something you learn growing up, not even Max, not until then. I never told him the extent.

I was told by so many people I was lying, and I got tired of him being let off for using my body when I never told him he could.

“I want you to rot in hell. I hope you never see a day of peace down there,” I sneer, my nose scrunching.

I look over at Max, who’s already halfway rummaging through the bag like he’s done this a hundred times before. His movements are quick, practiced, almost casual, which somehow makes the whole thing feel even worse. A second later, he pulls out a Glock and turns it slightly in his hand before placing it in mine.

I hold out my hand and take it, and for a moment, I just feel the weight of it sitting heavy in my palm. Cold. Solid. Final. My fingers curl around it slowly, tightening until my grip feels locked in place, and then I lift my eyes back to Danny.

He looks worse than he did a minute ago. Maybe it’s the panic settling into his face, maybe it’s the way fear strips a person down so fast, but there’s something pathetic about him now. Small. Weak. Like all the noise and arrogance and cruelty that used to live in him has drained out through the ground, leaving behind nothing but a trembling body and a pair of terrified eyes.

I know I should make him suffer. I should carve him up, piece by piece, and leave him with nothing—not pride, not dignity, not even enough of himself left to be remembered properly. A part of me wants that. A vicious, hungry part of me wants to take my time and make sure he feels even a fraction of what he’s earned.

But the stronger part of me can’t think of anything worse than standing here another minute, breathing the same air as him, looking at that face, and remembering every reason I hate it. He’s had long enough on this earth. Longer than he deserved. Long enough to do what he did and keep walking around as the world owed him another sunrise. So what I’m about to do feels fully, completely, fucking justifiable.

I lift the Glock and point the barrel at his forehead.

My arm stays steady. My hand doesn’t shake. I press the muzzle against his skin with a slight but real pressure, before pushing harder. Hard enough to make him flinch. Hard enough to leave a mark.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

His voice shakes violently, every word broken apart by fear. Gone is whatever confidence he thought he had. Gone is the version of him that thought he could talk his way out of anything. Now he sounds like a man staring straight at the end and finally understanding that no one is coming to stop it.

I smile.

“I’m going to kill you, silly,” I say, my voice high and almost playful, which somehow makes it sound even worse.

The words hang between us.

I push the barrel tighter against his forehead, my finger resting on the trigger, not pulling, just waiting there with terrible patience. Every second that passes stretches thin and sharp. I can hear him breathing too fast. I can hear the tiny movement of his body, trying not to shake. I can feel the pulse of the moment in my hand.

And with each second that goes by, I press harder—but never hard enough.

Not yet.

I let it off.