Page 33 of The Wrong Drive

I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “You don’t want to know me, Em. There’s nothing good left of me.”

“Yeah, I was stupid,” she mumbles, surprising me by not asking anymore questions. She scoots back from the table, leaving her plate basically untouched. “And now, I’d rather die not knowing you.” A tear rolls down her cheek as she stands to her feet. She doesn’t wipe it away, leaving it to taunt me, reminding me of just how horrible I really am.

She goes to walk past me, and I panic, my hand landing on her bicep. “Don’t go back there. Just stay. Please.”

“Why?” Emersyn tips her head back. “So you can try to intimidate me with your guns and psychosis? You don’t scare me anymore, Turner.” The numbness in her face is gut wrenching.

“I don’t want to scare you, Em,” I blurt out, my guard slipping in desperation. “I just want you to stay here with me. I have a TV. I can hook it up for you. We could watch a movie. I can?—”

“Shut up,” she cuts me off, her voice painfully soft. “I don’t want your niceties. I don’t want your fucking TV or your time. I want you to decide what you’re going to do with me, and just fuckingdo it.”

I down the rest of my bourbon and set the glass on the counter, and then jerk her body into mine. She lets out a sharp breath, and I back her into the cabinet. I grab her chin and force her to look at me.

“What ifthisis what I want to do with you?” I lean down, my nose brushing hers.

“So you want to play house then, Turner?” she spews back at me, her voice cold. “Might as well kill me, stuff me, and then set me at your table. You’ll get more of a reaction from my dead body than living.”

I grit my teeth, trying to keep my anger at bay as Gunner whines from somewhere. “Do you justwantme to kill you? Because trust me, when I blackout again, Iwill.”

Shespitsin my face. “Go ahead. Saves me the agony of living with you, you sick fucking psycho.” If she means to anger me, it doesn’t work. It doesn’t enrage me in the slightest. Instead, it drains me of emotion leaving my stomach feeling nauseous and my chest tight. I release her, backing away.

She finally sees me for who I am, no sugarcoating it to herself. There’s not an ounce of denial. It is what it is—and it fuckinghurts.

Chapter 14

Emersyn

The snow finally breaks,but it doesn’t mean the same as it did before. All it means now is that the sun beams through the window, taunting me with a freedom I know I’ll never have. I slide into a pair of dark wash jeans and an olive colored sweatshirt, pull my hair up into a messy bun, and step out of the bedroom. Part of me hopes Turner is still upstairs with his bourbon—the way he left yesterday evening.

But there’s this unwantedsmallpart of me that hopes I’ll run into him.

I hate that part of me. It’s the same part that made me feel guilty for spitting in his face, which had the opposite effect of what I thought it would. Ihurthim, which is maybe what I wanted. But two wrongs don’t make a right, right? I don’t know anymore.

“I’m going outside to get started clearing,” Turner tells me as soon as I appear at the end of the hallway. Gunner stands beside him, wagging his tail. I nod, meeting his eyes. He instantly looks away. It’s like a game.

And now he’s the one who won’t face me.

“How much snow?”

“Four days’ worth,” he grunts, opening the backdoor and disappearing. I watch him go, the door slamming shut behind him. I stare after him, wondering why I still feel the urge to follow him. I suppressed it, but it’s still there. I let out a sigh, my stomach growling. Slowly, my appetite has resurfaced, and honestly, the grief has faded astronomically faster than I expected.

In fact, I think there might be something wrong with me. But maybe this is just how I cope.

I shudder, and then grab a granola bar, spinning on my heels and heading back down the hallway. However, as I reach the end of the hallway, I make a right, heading up the stairs. Turner is going to be out a while, and as I peer out the window, I see him already shoveling snow around the house.

“I lied to you,” I say, watching him through the window. “Idowant to know who’s going to try and kill me.” There’s a knot in my throat as the words leave my lips, and I’m almost certain it makes me crazy.

But if Iknowhim, maybe I stand a chance to survive him.

I head straight for the room he found me in, slipping inside. I leave the lights off, letting the natural light fill the room, and I shut myself in. I should hear him come in, but if I don’t, I’ll at least have a chance to hide. It’s a shitty plan, but Ihaveto know why Turner did what he did—and I have a good feeling this room means something.

As soon as I click the door shut, I head for the desk in the corner. I pick up the top letter first, which is an explanation that he’s not eligible to receive disability with a dishonorable discharge. I set that to the side, picking up a handwritten letter from someone named Calvin Bradford. It’s handwritten, worn, and it appears it’s been poured over more times than once, dated December 11, 2013.

Thomas,

Thank you for reaching out. I won’t be stateside for another six months. When I am, I will give you a call and see how things are going. I don’t want to leave you without more information, however. I know you have the official documents, but you deserve the off-record truth, too.

Your brother is struggling with severe PTSD, but I believe it’s developing into more. His outbursts are violent, and even though they follow with heartbreaking remorse for his actions, I believe that he’s going to need significant clinical help to get past his blackouts that have developed. He nearly killed me, and his psychologist could only explain it as a break in his psyche. I don’t think it’s a high or addiction. It’s the trauma eating him alive. I’m worried one day, he will snap and hurt someone he loves.

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