Page 6 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

I prefer ignorance.

I cherish the memory of the world before it was touched by the ruins of truth like dark clouds circling the sky. For a few short, blissful years, I had the fortune of living as if pain didn’t exist.

The house looks the same after all these years, but the paint has been refreshed and the windows replaced. It’s the same house Paige grew up in, but she’s living there now without her parents. She didn’t inherit the house because her parents aren’t dead. She’s renting from them as they’ve moved to be closer to the sea in their old age.

I pull into the driveway next to an oversized white SUV, kill the ignition, then step out onto the asphalt driveway leading up to the two-car garage. It’s not hard to notice that the rusted sedan is out of place on a street that’s outfitted with fancy, luxury cars. Before I can ring the doorbell, the front door cracks open and Paige slips through the cracks, closing the door behind her.

She looks the same. She’s as tall as she ever was with platinum hair that costs a fortune to maintain. She’s tan with emerald eyes that almost seem to glow underneath the morning sun.

She looks different. There’s a hint of wrinkles on her forehead with heavy, dark bags under her eyes, about a decade too soon. It’s too early for her to paint her face with makeup that’d hide the flaws and if I know anything about Paige, it’s that she doesn’t leave the house without looking as pristine as possible.

She’s always been so fucking perfect and the only thing I’ve been perfect at is fucking up. We shouldn't even be friends. There’s nothing we share in common other than our childhoods. I guess that’s enough of a reason to keep the charade of a bond up.

“You look good,” I say with a warm smile. It’s probably the first time I’ve smiled since I’ve been home. There’s not exactly much to smile about.

“You too.” She’s lying. I know this because she’s never been a particularly hard book to read. The words she wants to say are always written all over her face. Not everyone is blessed to be born with the gift of lying. That’s reserved for the worst of us. “What are you doing here, Addison?”

I cock my eyes sideways. “You know why I’m here.”

She takes two steps down the concrete stairs. “I was worried about your mom.”

“For good reason. She’s worse than I remember.”

She raises a hand to fiddle with the lobe of her ear, her fingers passing over a sparkling diamond. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

Now, I understand why she was using her nervous tick. Something is up. The only reason I’m back in Montauk is because of her. She called me up and said that she was worried about my mother and that I should come home immediately.

“When you say here, do you mean at your house, or do you mean home?” I question trying to make sense of the senseless. “Because I’m really trying to understand why you’re looking at me the way you are.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d wager she’s just like everyone else, looking at me with the same judgmental gaze. She was the only person there for me when my life was falling apart.

“You can’t just come running back into town and expect people to welcome you with open arms. It’s been three years, Addison.”

“You know why I left,” I say softly. “You know I didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t sort the truth from the fiction.”

“The truth is that…” I stop myself, coming up empty. “I know I handled things badly. I know I should have at least explained to you why I was going, or hell, I should’ve told you that I was leaving. I can’t change the past, though. So if you’re wanting me to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

My apologies are half-assed at best. It’s not that I’m lying though. The truth is complicated and nasty, and with everything that’s happened to me in my life, to say I don’t possess the ability to be truly sorry for anything would be an understatement. I’m too focused on the survival of my own soul to care about the people I hurt in the process. Some would say that makes me a sociopath. Others would say it’s a form of narcissism. I call it the aching remnants of guilt.

I killed someone.

The heart can never be painted blacker than that.

It can never freeze so cold.

She wets her lips with her tongue and looks away from me. It’s her way of ignoring my apologies. “It’s eight in the morning. Can we get together to talk about this later?”

I open my mouth to speak, but something steals my attention.

The front door swings open and out comes a man. I’d recognize that face anywhere. It’d be impossible to forget. Kyle King was an asshole in high school. Everyone that circled Carter Calloway’s orbit was depraved in their own unique ways. For Kyle, he was the King of Montauk High, built on the back of the popularity afforded to him by his movie star looks and his father’s money. He could never quite compete with the likes of true Hamptons royalty. After all, he was still trash to most of the elite, but being friends with Carter meant he was afforded leniency and decency the rest of us weren’t.

For all the time I knew him, he was as sun-kissed as he was ripped, spending the majority of his time on the beach, wearing only fitted trunks. And here he is standing in front of me, his complexion as pale as a ghost, like he’s staring at a ghost.

My body chills under the stinging weight of his gaze.

He remembers me just as I remember him. He couldn’t forget me if he tried. He was directly responsible for the mob of burning torches that parked themselves on my mother’s lawn. Deep down, he always knew the truth. He saw me for what I was. A cold-blooded murderer. As for forgiveness, he’d rather choke the life out of me and ask forgiveness from the God he always swore he believed in after.

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