Page 179 of Overcast

He doesn’t thinkI’m going to wait for him.

But I do.

I wait because I’m beginning to understand that the love of a family member—your blood—is a powerful entity. Reagan and Marty are no doubt close, so he’d go through all of this to protect her.

I guess my own selfishness blocked how much this may be stressing him out. I can hardly relate, not having any siblings of my own or a parent that actually cares, but when I think of someone hurting Marty, a surge of violence courses through me.

It’s new and frightening, a different side of me that is starting to emerge from the depths of somewhere.

I’m aware that I’m capable of stabbing someone, but that was because my own life was at risk, and Marty deserved it.

But I barely felt guilty about it.

Those righteous ethics I’ve been holding onto I don’t know if they’re becoming blurred or disconnected, but it’s confusing.

Nevertheless, my feelings for Marty are the only clear thing that sticks out pure and true.

For two hours and twelve minutes, I’ve been sitting on my bed waiting for the wood that makes up the staircase to protest at Marty’s weight. They’d be easier to hear now that Emmy and Mills have stopped talking and teasing each other downstairs, which makes me believe both of them have fallen asleep or left.

But the more time that goes by, the more anxious I become. The greater the thoughts become of how he killed Bianca and if he’s getting rid of the body right now. If I’m a terrible person for agreeing to let him do what he feels is right while I just roll it off my shoulders.

You’re standing by and letting him murder someone.

I rub my temples, propping my elbows onto my knees, and scold myself for being so stupid in my emotions for Marty that I’ll practically let him do whatever he wants.

Is that right?

Where does the line begin and end?

When is enough, enough?

Am I becoming like him with thinking that just because someone has done something horrific that it’s alright not to turn the other cheek?

The whining of stairs seeps underneath my door, and I bolt upright. My legs swing over the side of my bed, and I’m already moving for the door, listening for any more signs or sounds of noise. When I don’t hear anything else, I slowly turn my knob and open the door, peering through the tiny gap of space.

Marty isn’t there, but his bedroom door is now closed. Propping the door wider, I take a step but pause.

I should think about this.

What good reason would I have for knocking on his door? I’ve already hurt his feelings just to give him my blessing to do whatever he feels is right to Bianca. I’m sending mixed messages because I don’t have all mine in check or sorted out.

I counter my step back inside when his door swings open, exposing a shirtless version of Marty. My eyes can’t help but appreciate his chest, followed by his muscled torso that’s tan and sculpted by the devil. The black band of his boxer briefs pops up over the waistband of his jeans, and the movement between his legs summons me to it.

“Eyes are up here, sweetheart,” he greets, propping his stout forearm along the edge of his doorway. “What are you still doing up?”

“I...” Demanding myself to look at his face and not everything else, I straighten my spine in mock confidence. “Needed some water.”

I squeeze the knob as Marty steps out of his room. “Alright.”

Then that’s it.

He strides for the bathroom and softly clicks it closed. I blink, clearly not expecting him to leave me out here without some other comment about how I feel about what we discussed earlier.

Maybe he doesn’t want to press me.

Possibly. Actually, more than likely.

Marty isn’t the man to lay out his mental state, but lately, it’s all he’s been doing.

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