Page 41 of House of Lies

Ethan’s door is closed, of course.

I scowl at the door and turn on my heel, heading for the kitchen.

I’m starving.

The last thing I ate was last night’s apple pie, and I’m sure I burned a ton of calories in Ethan’s bedroom. And then there’s what came after.

Me. I did.

In the privacy of his guest room, of course, but it happened. While I fantasized about him belting me, then fucking me. My hand trembles so hard, I spill my coffee. I stare at the brown splat on the tiles in front of me and almost start crying.

This man’s broken me.

I stare at a canary yellow post-note stuck to the mirror-finish microwave in Remington’s kitchen as I sip on my coffee. Graphology fascinates me. I’m intrigued by the idea that a person’s handwriting can reveal aspects of their personality to the trained observer.

breakfast inside

groceries coming later

What would an expert say about the hasty scrawl crammed onto the note?

Would the slant of the I reveal how much of a control freak Ethan is? What about the fact that he writes in uppercase? That’s got to be a sure sign of narcissism.

The note goes in the trash, and is almost followed by the breakfast I find in the microwave. But when the smell of French toast hits my nose, my survival instinct forces me to stop.

I hate the fact that I eat the breakfast Ethan made for me.

But what I hate even more is that it’s so damn tasty.

I take out my frustration on the breakfast dishes before doing another load of laundry. Then I grab the bucket of cleaning supplies and head up to the first floor like a woman possessed.

Before night falls, I will know what happened to my mother.

I won’t leave without answers, and I refuse to stay in this house another day.

Chapter 17

Ethan

The doorbell rouses me from my work just after noon. I wait for a few moments, but since I don’t know if Cassidy will take it upon herself to answer my door, I go downstairs.

I woke up clear-minded, energized, and I hardly believe it, but almost hopeful. Did Myles know how cathartic his gift would be?

But I still need to sell this house, and one thing I’m certain of is that Cassidy has been generously compensated for her time with me. I might as well make the most of it.

Cassidy’s voice meets me halfway up the last flight of stairs, so I stop to listen.

“Has he paid for all of this?” she asks. “Oh, good.” She giggles. “Thought the asshole was expecting me to pay.”

The delivery guy murmurs something, and they have a good laugh about it.

I stride down the stairs, carried on the wings of a furious, inexplicable jealousy. The asshat of a delivery guy is close to Cassidy’s age, with a tanned face and the kind of smile I’d like to wipe off with my fist.

“Is this everything?” I growl out, sweeping my eyes over the three bags of groceries.

“Uh, y-yes, Mr. R-Remington,” the delivery guy stammers, before getting hold of himself. “Would you like to review my?—”

“I’d like you to get the fuck off my property.”

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