Page 17 of Little Liar
What if that fuckwad Parker got to her first?
I get off my bike and hunt around the area, silently praying she isn’t in a bush; that she hasn’t fallen victim to a hit and run.
She’s not here.
I open up my group chat with my friends and type out a message.
Me: Has anyone seen my little sister?
It’s a ridiculous question. Their paths never cross—my group is a bunch of punks, and she’s the popular girl far too beautiful for her own good.
Taking a deep breath, I drive around more, ending up outside Abigail’s house. It’s in darkness too, but the room light is on.
I’ve climbed up to that window more times than I can count. It takes me no more than two minutes to get up onto the treedirectly across from the window, but I grimace and look away when I see Olivia’s friend kissing some guy while his friend watches on the bed.
Okay, so she isn’t there, but I might need to bleach my fucking eyeballs out after seeing Abigail’s tits. My sister won’t act like that—she’s still innocent, nervous around guys, and she’s technically not allowed to fuck around.
I shiver at the thought of her with someone else.
I’ll kill them.
Where the fuck are you, Olivia?
I try to call her again, but still no luck. After searching the streets for another hour, seeing the sun is already starting to rise, panic turns to full-on anxiety, and I decide I need help.
I head home, fully intent on getting Dad to call the cops and start a hunt for my sister—she’s not even with Abbi anymore, and I have far too many scenarios running through my mind to even worry about the speed I’m going on my bike.
What if she’s hurt?
I should turn back and go to her friend, pin her down and force her to tell me where Olivia is, but the fact she’s probably being rammed by two cocks has me deciding against that idea.
Reaching the house, I silently swear when I see it’s in darkness again. Mom is at some event, and I was certain my father would be home still, but his car is gone. I rush in, check his office just in case, then head to my room while typing out a text to him.
Our last messages to each other were four months ago, when he asked me to pick Olivia up from practice in her car and then to show him pictures of what was wrong with my bike. I’d crashed it, and he was going to fix it, but I ignored the texts, giving him the cold shoulder until I sorted the bike myself.
Before I click send, I stop a few steps from my door, seeing it’s open.
I closed it on my way out.
I push the door fully open, and my shoulders untense, my heart rate slowing when I see Olivia asleep in my bed. I breathe, lean my back against the door frame, and drop my helmet on the ground.
She’s going to fucking kill me one day.
I delete my message to Dad, toss my phone onto the weight bench, pull off my jacket, and kick my boots off. Then I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten, trying to talk myself down from strangling her for making me panic like that.
Her dress is dirty as if she’d fallen, and her mascara is smeared down her cheeks like she’s been crying. I think she’s been crying every day for the last week, but she won’t tell me why. She’s doing that a lot lately, and I don’t think it’s from the nightmares. She’s usually honest with me when it comes to them.
I pull open the bottom drawer of my dresser and grab sleep shorts and a top from her pile. They have snowflakes on them, a Christmas present from one of the house workers who never gets me anything. Not that I care. No one in this house sees me the way they see my sister or my parents.
After making sure my door is locked, even though I know no one is home, I shut the main light off and turn on the lamp beside the bed, giving her pretty face a glow.
Her lips are parted a little, and she doesn’t stir as I slowly run the pad of my thumb along them, smearing the red lipstick I hate. Soft, yet sticky, I watch the color move onto her skin, then rub the stain between my thumb and fingertips.
She looks better with her lip gloss on.
Once I pull her shoes off, I try to figure out where the zip is on her dress to remove it. Her hair gets caught in the material as I slide it off and toss it into my laundry basket.
She isn’t wearing a bra.
