Page 80 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
I’d swear she’d be frowning if she could. The Botox prevents it.
A creak drags my eyes back to the second floor.
“He’s not up there, honey. It’s just creaky, like always. Old things are. I’m telling you, these knees are starting to act the same way.” She stands, and they prove her point with a click. “Your loser boyfriend almost ran me off the road. He’s probably halfway home to Mommy by now.”
Annabelle never really clicked with Shane. She saw him a few times in our teens and told me she wasn’t feeling him and didn’t believe I was, either.
“Are you here to see me?”
“Yeah. I only just heard you were back. And who else would I be here to see?”
It’s almost like she is waiting for an answer, but my mind isn’t on her question as my eyes dart around the room.
“Dollie, what the fuck happened?”
Annabelle is the only person other than Ambrose ever to call me Dollie, and it’s only because she picked up the nickname from him in childhood.
She’d been one of the two friends who tried to interact with us after we returned home.
I sigh, my attention snapping back to her. “I should call Shane to see if he’s okay.” I leave my perch, heading for my phone, still in my coat pocket at the door.
Even though my mind is numb to the crunching beneath my feet, every step brings a tear to my eye. By the time I reach my coat, dozens are dripping off my chin, and it isn’t because of the blood seeping through my socks.
Her hand wraps around my wrist. “Don’t you dare. I mean, if he did this and that…” She points to my neck, “Then he isn’t worth your time. Don’t be calling him to check ifhe’s okay.Is he calling you to see how you are? No, he did all this and ran away. Call the police.”
“He hasn’t called,” I confirm as I eye my lock screen.
He left me here with a clown—with Ambrose, who wants me dead—and didn’t even care enough to check on me.
Unless…I freeze. Unless there was no clown.
No Ambrose.
The realization hits. And it hits hard.
It could have been just another vandal.
A vandal, I saw as someone else to bring myself a little comfort.
But why would the idea of him—my brother—still do that for me? The death threat lingers in my mind, asking that same question.
I wish I had a reason for thinking that way about Ambrose. A flutter of warmth spreads inside me as I think of him again, and I see it as a weakness.
I pictured a vandal turned hero as my fucking stepbrother because I wanted it to be him. I wanted the hero I always had when I needed one most.
But he isn’t that person.
He’s a monster, who will hurt me if given the chance. And I need to remember that.
God, I really am broken.
“Shit,” I mumble to myself, running my hands down my face. “I can’t call the police.”
“Why not? Don’t let that bastard get away with shit like this. You’re physically hurt, Dollie, and that entire fucking room is smashed up. What started this? How did you get him to stop?”
Annabelle’s fingers snap in front of my eyes, pulling my attention from the second floor when I don’t give her an answer.
“Someone else was in this house. And I thought—no, at the time, I was sure it was—” I stop, no longer sure of anything.
