Page 44 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

As he sits there droning on about possible replacements, I begin to lose my patience. I honestly couldn’t give two shits about this event. We host it every year, and I fucking hate it. The mayor has got to be pushing eighty, and his wife—who is at least half his age—tries to fuck everything that moves. I shudder as I think about last year, when she tried to force her way into my office.

After the third time I snap at him, I can tell he has had enough.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he barks, tossing a folder down on the low table in front of the sofa.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter, so not in the mood to get into it right now.

Unfortunately, he’s not letting it go.

Crossing one leg over his knee, he leans back into the sofa as he continues to stare me down.

If there’s one thing I both love and hate about my brother, it’s that he is as stubborn as a damn mule. God help whatever woman attracts his attention, because he is one tenacious motherfucker.

Though he can be a real pain in my ass, it was that same persistence that led him to find me, pull me back from the ledge, and force me to get my life straight, to keep going despite my guilt. Even though there were many times I resented him, I’m grateful he never gave up on me.

“Oh—really? Cause right now, you’re being an asshole,” he says, calling me out, “and I’m sorry, but after everything I’ve done for you lately, I don’t deserve that shit.”

I run my hands through my hair.

He’s right. I know he’s right. He has been the one to keep this place running while I have been otherwise—preoccupied.He doesn’t deserve my attitude.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I—took Maggie back home today, and I guess it’s messing with my head.” A shit eating grin creeps across his face. “Don’t even start…” I warn.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, holding his hands up.

“So that’s a thing then—you and her?”

I nod, and the fucker’s face lights up like I just told him I was getting married instead of sort of dating someone.

“Good for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s just… I have this bad feeling, like I’m gonna fuck it up.”

“Why do you think that?” he asks.

“She still doesn’t know who I am. I’ve never told her about my past, the things I have done. Hell, she doesn’t even remember the night we first met.”

“Wait—what do you mean?” he asks, sitting up straight as he uncrosses his legs.

I open my desk drawer, pulling out the skull face hood I was wearing that first night, rubbing the soft knit fabric between my thumb and forefinger.

I never told him the whole truth about that first night Maggie was attacked—whether from my own guilt or fear of his disapproval at my loss of control, I’m not sure.

When I think about how bad that could have gone, how I could have been disposing of two bodies instead of just one, it makes me physically ill. I was distracted that night, mesmerized by her, and I dropped my guard—only for a second, but long enough for her to come at me.

The sedative I brought was enough to take down a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill her. Memories of that night race in, all the panic and fear I felt.

She was so limp and pale in my arms, she appeared dead. After I thoroughly scrubbed away any trace of blood from her skin and disposed of her soiled clothes, I kept vigil at her bedside all night, not daring to leave until she started to stir.

“That night at the bookstore, I was wearing that,” Isay, tossing my hood at him. He snatches it out of the air one-handed, his brows knitting together briefly before recognition sets is. “She never saw my face.”

“What about when you took her home? You never took it off?” I shake my head.

Shame coats the back of my throat at the look of horror that flashes across his face as I recount the full details of everything that happened that night.

He whistles low under his breath once I finish. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill her.”

“I know,” I croak, my voice thick.

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