Then
Sunday, June 13
Brooklyn, New York
The night’s tequila still pulsing in my veins, I stumbled out of the cab Willa had put me in and onto 19th Street in Brooklyn, my temporary home. I made my way up to the second floor and into the apartment, crashed into bed. Willa and I had spent our last drink in a mood almost jubilant, clinking our glasses to how much we hated George and men like him, how it was right for me to leave, to get away, even if the road ahead promised to be bumpy.
I was drunk. Drunk as that night Cassandra had had to take me home, right after Alex was born.
Yet I felt lighter, somehow. Willa knew my secrets now. All of George’s awful punishments. She knew—and understood—why I could never go back.
She knew what I’d done, how I’d failed to help Cassandra. And she forgave me. She understood.
I pulled out my phone, tapped into messages, started a new one to Willa.
Thanks so much for listening tonight. Love ya.
Her reply took only seconds to come back.
Anytime, girlie. I’m sorry he’s doing this to you.
I remembered the way Willa had joked.
I’ll kill the man, I swear, and no one would suspect little old me.
Not for the first time, the thought shot into my head.
Sometimes I wish . . .
All jokes aside, it was a horrible thought to have. Who in their right mind could think that about the father of their own child, no matter how awful he was?
Only right now, it also felt like a logical thought to have.
George had made it so clear he would punish me and punish me until I came back. And if he really made good on his threats to take Alex away, how was I going to stand up to him and the Haywoods? It was David versus Goliath. As Willa would say . . . yikes.
The life insurance alone. It would give me freedom from them, all of them.
I could build myself a new life.
It was a horrible, terrible, evil thought.
And yet, hadn’t George done terrible, evil things? Destroying beloved items. Messing with my career. Trying to mold my own son into yet another person to walk all over me?
What more would he do, if I gave him the chance?
Who would he turn Alex into if he had him, day in and day out?
Sometimes I wish . . .
Suddenly, it felt like it needed to be out, just as all the rest of it had been, and the tequila lured me, and as the room spun around me, I felt the pull, desperate, to rid myself even of this.
I typed it out to Willa, hit send before I could stop myself.
Sometimes I wish George were dead. It would make all of this easier. I would finally be free.
I saw the dots immediately, Willa typing, and I struggled to stay awake, but the room spun faster, and the phone fell from my hand, my lids suddenly heavy.
Then I was out.