Page 106 of Her Dark Angel

I blink at the two men as I try to process everything they said. My mother was murdered in a dodgy motel room by a man she slept with for money because he got angry when she wouldn’t give him more. Whatever more means.

“Fucking whore,” Dad mutters under his breath so only I can hear before he plasters a smile on his face. “Thank you for the update. I appreciate all of your hard work.”

Jason nods and pats Spencer on the shoulder. “We’ll be in contact, okay? And again, sorry for your loss.” He gives me a long, knowing look. As if he’s silently saying hang in there, kid.

Dad and I watch in silence as Jason and Spencer turn on their heels and walk in the direction of their car, leaving us alone. The raindrops pelting against my skin and the muddy ground beneath my black shoes are almost deafening as we stand in silence.

Dad blows out a long breath and turns to face the grave once more. He lifts the flask to his mouth and chugs the remainder of the alcohol swirling around inside before pulling it away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I never thought I would see you six feet under, Del, but I must admit that it’s fucking riveting.” He chuckles dryly and shakes his head. “You got what was coming to you, so I hope you rot in Hell like the whore you are.”

With that, Dad spits on Mom’s grave and walks away, stumbling slightly.

As I stand in silence next to my mother’s grave, staring down at the mushy soil, I wonder whether my parents were once happy together.

Did Dad used to come home from work and kiss Mom while she cooked dinner? Did they ever sit on the couch and spend quality time together? Did they whisper I love you at night before going to sleep?

All those ‘what ifs’ sound so far-fetched even if they were once true.

From a young age, all I’ve ever known was hate between my parents. We never spent quality time together as a family, and I can’t remember the last time they told me they loved me and that they were proud of me. The words themselves are foreign to me and not something I’m capable of receiving. At least, that’s what I’ve been told repeatedly by them.

And eventually, you begin to believe the harsh words.

No one is ever going to love you.

No one will ever be proud of you.

You will never be successful.

You’re a failure, Nash.

I may feel a sense of peace as I turn to walk away from my mother’s grave, but nothing has changed in my life. I’m still the same person I was before she died; the voices in the back of my mind telling me I’m not good enough will never leave. And the demons walking in my shadows will be with me every step of the way, no matter where I am in life or what I do.

And somehow, that’s worse than the death of my mother.

36

KINSLEY

Present—1989.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, I have time in my schedule to sit at the wooden table I bought when I first moved in. I can finally sit on the patio and enjoy a goddamn cup of tea without having to answer to anyone. The June heat still lingers in the air, my skin coated in a light sheen of sweat. Wrapping my arm around my knees pulled to my chest, I hold the steaming mug of tea in the other hand and smile.

I have never felt so peaceful watching the sun setting low on the horizon with dark storm clouds brewing in the distance. The sky is a masterpiece of orange and pink hues Picasso would be proud of.

If I had the ability to take photos with my eyes and commit them to memory, I would snap this moment in time to keep with me forever.

I lean back on the wooden chair and sip the hot peppermint tea. After a long day of modeling shoots, I managed to sneak away early to enjoy some much-needed me-time at home. With everything that has been going on lately with Nash, I needed some time to just sit in silence and not think about anything.

Nash.

God, he’s all I’ve been able to think about this past week since the drive-in. Those mismatched eyes invade my every waking thought, and I smell his woodsy cologne no matter where I am. He’s been ingrained in my mind, pushing the demons to the side.

Being able to think clearly for the first time in years is exciting, yet overwhelming too.

I exhale slowly, grateful for the silence. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder if my mother will barge into my home and harass me about not having booked another audition.

If Nash’s mother were still alive, would she be this overbearing with him or would she have taken a step back and let him do his thing?

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