Page 55 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

Anger is the only thing holding the pieces of me together, so I welcome it with open arms.

“How many, Archer?”

When he finally looks up at me, I almost crumple under the weight of his stare, the anguish evident in his eyes. Gone is the confident, dirty talking man I fell for. This man standing before me now is a broken, hollowed out version of himself.

He is open, vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen him before, and even though it kills me to see him that way, I refuse to back down. No, I’m too caught up in my own pain to be able to offer up any sort of comfort or forgiveness.

He lied to me. He’s had plenty of chances to come clean and didn’t. He doesn’t get to sit here and play the victim now.

“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act all repentant now. You should have told me the truth from the beginning.”

“You’re right,” he says, voice devoid of emotion.

He looks away, and I see it as soon as it happens.

I watch as he rebuilds those walls he likes to hide behind, brick by icy brick.

When he turns back to me, his face is blank, expressionless, that cold mask he donned so often in the beginning returning.

I am not normally a violent person, but seeing it now makes me want to scream, cry, claw it right off his beautiful face.

“You want to know how many people I’ve killed, Little Rose?” he finally answers.

“The truth is, I don’t know anymore. I lost count after a while. Does it really matter? They’re still dead. You want to know the most fucked up part?” He shakes his head. “I don’t regret it. I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.

“I told you my sister died because of me, but I never told you the whole story. The person who killed her was the son of one of my marks, a man who liked little girls…a little too much. He was a sick fuck, and whether his son didn’t know about his predilections or just didn’t fucking care, I don’t know. What I do know is he wanted revenge. He pulled up in front of a restaurant one night when I was out having dinner with my family. The kid was a lousy shot. First bullet hit me in the shoulder. Second went wide—hit Cecelia straight through the chest. I held my baby sister while she bled to death in my arms right there on the sidewalk,” he says, voice cracking.

Tears run down my face in steady streams as I picture a younger Archer holding his sister while the life left her body. I can feel my resolve crumbling.

It’s no wonder he holds on to so much guilt, knowing the bullet that killed her was meant for him. I can’t begin to imagine what that kind of trauma does to a person.

“I didn’t even go to her funeral. I couldn’t. Instead, I hunted down the ones responsible and killed them—all except one: a cousin who fled like the coward he was. Care to take a guess who that man was?”

I shake my head.

“The same one you killed.” My head rears back as if I’d been slapped.

“That’s right. That’s why I showed up there that night—to finish what I started. But someone beat me to him.” His hand moves as if to touch me, but he stops himself. Instead, he tucks them in his suit pockets, and though relieved, I’m hit with a pang of disappointment.

“So, you see, he was dead either way. If you hadn’t killed him, I would have. My soul is already stained black—there was no reason for you to have to live with that burden as well. I had hoped you wouldn’t remember.”

I sway on my heels, my head spinning from this new revelation. This is a whole lot of information to process, and as I’m trying to wrap my brain around it, there issomething about what he said that is nagging at me, but I’m having a hard time putting my finger on exactly what it was.

“Look—I understand where you’re coming from, I do, but that wasn’t your decision to make.”

“The whole reason you even had to do what you did was because of me. Don’t you see? It was my fucking fault. If I would had gone after him instead of succumbing to my guilt and grief, he wouldn’t have even been alive. You were assaulted and almost…” he cuts himself off as if unable to finish that thought. “You were hurt because of me.”

“Archer…” I start, feeling myself softening. “You know what happened to me is not your fault. You do know that, right? You have to stop holding yourself accountable for the actions of others. It wasn’t your fault.”

He nods, but I’m not convinced he truly believes it.

Suddenly, it comes to me why what he said seemed off.

“When you said you hoped I wouldn’t remember—why would you think I wouldn’t remember?” His eyes dart away as a flash of guilt crosses his face.

“What happened? Why are my memories all fuzzy? What did you do?”

“You were in shock when I found you. You lashed out, tried to attack me with the boxcutter. I had to sedate you.”

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