lip and tasting the waxy texture of my lipstick. “If, after everything I’ve learned in the last few days, I agree to it.” Vic turns to look at me, anger building in his dark gaze. I stare right back at him, and I refuse to flinch. “And if that's the case, then remember, there won't just be a king in Havoc; there'll be a queen.” I turn away before he can respond, shaking as I head across the grass toward the front door.
It's unlocked, so I let myself in, ignoring Aaron's stare as I pass by.
“Welcome back, Bernadette,” he says, but I don't look at him. Instead, I gather Heather from upstairs, promise the girls I'll make good on my promise about the makeup, and head outside to the Camaro.
I need some time away from the boys to think.
Even if it means going home to my worst nightmare.
To fight him, I'll have to become one myself, but I'm not afraid, not anymore.
Pamela is waiting for us when we get home, sitting on the living room sofa with a fan of stolen credit cards on the coffee table in front of her, her laptop open beside them. I see an order confirmation from Nordstrom on the screen, thanking her for her fifteen-hundred-dollar purchase. Guess at least one of those stolen Visas had some room on it.
“If you're going to steal credit cards and commit felony fraud, why not get your daughter some new shoes?” I quip as Heather heads up the stairs to her room. The Thing isn't home just yet, but he will be soon. I'm curious to see what his next move will be, now that he knows I'm plotting against him. I'm going to have to be extremely careful for the next few weeks, watch my every move. If I hit him, he'll send me to juvie faster than you can say sociopathic pedophile pig.
“I taught you manners, Bernadette,” Pamela says, lifting her martini to her lips. She rarely drinks, but when she does, her fights with Neil get even worse. They deserve each other. “Don't you talk to me that way.”
“What way?” I ask, coming around the table with my ratty backpack slung over my shoulder. “Like I think you could do better? That you should do better? Why is it okay for you to waltz around in stolen pearls, but you can't at least pinch Heather some new shoes?”
Pamela waves her hand absently in my direction, her attention focused on the screen of her brand-new iPhone instead of on my face.
“If it's that important to you, take a card and order some shoes. I don't care.” She gestures at the credit cards on the table, but I know that if she's being that generous, it means they're all used up. I've never once had Pamela gift me with anything, not even a piece of something she's stolen. After a moment, she finally looks up at my face. It's clear from her expression that Neil hasn't told her shit—not even that he's possibly gotten an underage teen pregnant. “What? You think you can stay out all the time, ignore my calls, and I'll start showering you with gifts when you deign to return home?”
I just stand there for a moment, staring at her. Her nails are long and red, the pearls around her neck real, her hair coiffed and freshly dyed from a recent salon visit. Pamela's clothes are designer, the gin in her martini top-shelf. She even sits on a beautiful silk couch, but it all looks so strange, paired with the dirty off-white walls of the duplex, the water-stained ceiling, and the open kitchen with its ‘70s cabinets. We live in a shithole while Pamela drapes herself in luxury. She's the epitome of selfish.
“You know why I don't come home, right?” I ask, and Pamela laughs, casting her green-eyed gaze my direction. I hate that I have her eyes, that I have her lips, her curves. I hate everything that ties us together. She can't make me forget that once, when I broke a plate on accident, she forced me to sit outside in the cold in nothing but my underwear while I watched her and the Thing eat a hot meal inside with Penelope and Heather.
Pen tried to sneak me some chicken later, but the Thing caught her, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away before she could unlock the sliding glass door. I always wondered what happened after that, but she