Page 113 of My Girl
“Will you ever stop watching me?” she asks. This isn’t the first time she’s asked this question, and it won’t be the last. It’s a thing we say together, a routine of ours. I don’t care where she is or what she’s doing; if she’s going to shit or eat or breathe, it’ll be with me. I like fucking with her too much.
“No,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, then leans over the sink, applying more eyeliner. A shadow casts over her nose, like a rock in the middle of a smooth sidewalk.
A lot can happen in a year. I told her I’d pay for her to get plastic surgery. Even doctors are susceptible to cash offers—that’s how I was able to stay in Pahrump for as long as I had without anyone connecting me to Roderick Galloway—but Rae had wanted me to break her nose.
It’s fucked up, but it’s real,she had said.Besides, I took your fingers.
I lick my lips, a sense of smugness warming me as I marvel at her bumped nose. I’d honestly let her cut off a lot more than two fingers just to see what she did with my extra parts.
“Put that shit away,” I say, pulling her away from the mirror. “You don’t need it.”
She huffs, slightly annoyed. “It’s not about needing it. It’s about looking like someone else.”
“Little girl, you don’t look a thing like you once did.”
She studies her reflection. Sometimes, we don’t recognize ourselves. With my shaved head, amped-up workout regime, and new tattoos, I’m not Roderick or Michael or even Crave anymore.
My normal mask doesn’t matter to me, but I want to see whatshedoes with this next version of ourselves. With each and every night, my girl gets a little more unpredictable. It’s entertaining.
“Do you still find me attractive? Even after everything?” she asks.
My eyes glaze over her body. She’s got scars now. Scars to prove where she’s been and to hint at where we’re going. Right now, we’re Carl and Julie, and in six months, we’ll have new names again. Simple names for fucked-up people.
But one thing stays the same. When we’re alone, she calls me Daddy, and I call her my little girl.
A ring is placed on her wedding finger, an ugly pink stone on a silver band, an act to make strangers trust us. But there’s a funny story behind it: my girl insisted on getting my fingers shipped to some artisan who put my bone fragments into a ring. She wears my ashes like jewelry every day. You would think it’s a wedding ring, but my girl isn’t like that. She wears my bones like a trophy, proud of what she’s done to me. To her, it’s a promise that I’ll literally be wrapped around her finger until the day we die.
And my promise is the scar she wears on her face. She’ll never be able to look in the mirror and hide from my control over her again.
A woman in a sundress opens the bathroom door, gawking at me—god forbid, a man in the woman’s bathroom—and I wink at her. She scurries to a stall.
My girl pulls me out of the bathroom. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s go.”
Outside, the tropical resort is bustling with people. Tan and sunburned skin. A mix of slender and thick bodies washed in a bright palette of bathing suit colors. Palm trees sway along the borders, and hibiscus flowers bloom. The scent of roasting meat floats in the air. A typical paradise for normal people; not the usual place for us.
“What are we doing here?” my little girl whispers. “This isn’t like us.”
“Trust me,” I say.
She scans me, but something over my shoulder catches her eye.
A woman with white-blonde hair. Watery eyes. Subtle wrinkles on her skin. A cocktail in her hand.
I push my girl forward.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks, her eyes welling up with tears. “My mother?”
“She’s not your mother,” I say. “Not anymore.”
My girl’s eyes trace me. Neither of us has to say a word. Even if it doesn’t make sense, my girl never liked that I didn’t kill her mother. She can’t help her jealousy—this idea that I was saving her mother’s life.
Letting Samantha Sinclair live wasn’t about loving Samantha or even being interested in her. It was about our daughter. I couldn’t kill her mother without destroying our daughter’s potential, and I wanted to see what would happen if our daughter grew upawayfrom me. If she would still turn out like me.
Turns out nothing can stop evil from blooming inside of a fucked-up soul. All it needs is a little nudge from its creator.
My girl takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
