Page 104 of When Lies Unfold

“And since today’s a complicated day for you”—his voice is like sandpaper, rough and raspy—“you got spooked with everythin’ that went on.”

I lift my chin defiantly. “And because I’m tired of being kept here with no say in my life.”

Silence saturates the air for a long moment.

“You don’t have prints on file.” Sharp, assessing eyes scrape over me. “That have somethin’ to do with this life you left behind?”

Don’t look away. Don’t paint yourself with any guilt. “Yes.” Because it’s true.

I’m simply not volunteering more information.

“Where else did he scar you?”

I straighten my shoulders, willing myself to answer him calmly and devoid of emotion. “Down my spine.”

A severe scowl descends over his face. “Where else?”

It’s instinctive to reach with my left hand, and I wince at the movement before correcting myself. Gesturing with my right hand to the left side of my head, toward my scalp, I add, “Here.”

Eyes glittering with anger, the stern angles of his face grow more distinctive. “And your hand.”

My fingers curl tightly, that area on my left hand igniting with fiery pain. “Yes.”

A deep, cavernous furrow forms between his brows. “And your so-called death happened today? On your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“You got away from him.” He says this as a statement instead of a question.

My answer sticks in my throat just the slightest bit. “Yes.”

His expression intensifies, gaze so cutting, it acts like a machete that’s slicing through to the truth. “But he’s still out there.”

My chest depresses heavily with what feels like a two-ton weight because he’s asking too many questions. “Yes.”

“He’s not close by, though.”

“No.”

“But you still fear him.”

I hesitate to answer. Do I still fear him? God, isn’t that just the infamous question… Because I’m not the same person I once was. There are only small shreds of the old me that still remain today.

Staring down at my palms, I study them as if they hold the secrets of the world while thoughts whirl in my mind.

If he were to find me today, he wouldn’t hold the same power over me. Now that I’ve had the glorious taste of freedom—true freedom—I’d never let myself be caged in a tortuous prison ever again.

The poetic nature of my “death” occurring on my birthday didn’t escape my notice. My main regret is that I never properly mourned myself. I never mourned the life that was stolen from me—the opportunities lost and the possibilities that never came to be.

I never properly mourned the youthful, naïve, and sweet woman I once was.

“Lola.”

My name on his lips has my head snapping up. So lost in my thoughts, I now realize that I didn’t answer him. When our eyes lock, my answer dies on my tongue, because barely concealed rage blazes in his features.

“You really twenty-nine like your ID says?”

Razor-sharp fear claws at my insides. “Close,” I hedge.

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