Torture to Her Soul
Page 95
"Upset."
Upset.
That's putting it mildly.
Inside, I'm a fucking mess.
"I'm fine," I lie. Blatantly. She can tell I'm not fine. "How are you?"
"Fine." She eyes me warily. "Seriously, are you okay? Did something happen?"
Did something happen? Yeah, something happened. My gaze shifts to the envelope as I shake my head. "Do you trust me, Karissa?"
"Uh…" She hesitates, tossing the spatula in the sink. "I'm trying to. I trust you won't hurt me, if that's what you mean, but as far as really trusting you… I don't know. I guess I do. Why?"
"Just curious," I say, strolling into the kitchen. "And do you think I should trust you?"
"Of course."
"Because I started to," I say, "and that wasn't easy for me. It took a lot for me to give you my trust again."
"I know," she says, her voice quiet. "You can trust me."
"So there isn't anything you want to tell me?" I ask. "Nothing you want to get off your chest?"
Her brow furrows at my line of questioning. "No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing." Her expression is full of confusion. "What is this about, Naz?"
Wordlessly, I stare at her, before opening the envelope and reaching inside. Holding it up, I pull out the top photograph, just far enough for her to see what it is. She stares at it blankly for a moment before her eyes widen with recognition. Her gaze darts straight to me, panicked, that fear returning.
The knife in my chest is being twisted.
"Where did you get that?" she asks. "Who took it?"
"Kelvin. You remember Kelvin, right? The bouncer from the club? I suppose some of those times you felt like you were being watched, you actually were."
Her eyes widen even further. "You had me followed? You said you didn't. You lied to me!"
"I lied to you?" I ask incredulously, shaking the photograph in her face. "You told me I could trust you."
"You can," she says. "That's not what it looks like. I don't know what he told you, but it's not what it seems."
"It isn’t? Because it seems to me, Karissa, like you got caught talking to the police."
"I didn't get caught. It wasn't like that."
"It wasn't? Because I don't remember you telling me about it. I don't remember you coming to me."
"That's because you were hurt," she says, shaking her head as she turns the stove off, abandoning whatever she's cooking. "Jesus, Naz, you'd just been shot! You had enough to deal with. I was trying to be strong… for you, for me… for us. I was trying, okay? And every time I left the house, every time I went somewhere, those detectives were around. So I talked to them."
"You talked to them."
"Yes, when you were injured."
"When I was injured," I say. "You talked to them."
"Ugh, stop that!" she growls. "Stop repeating me. I went there because they wouldn't leave us alone. I went there because you were hurt, Naz, because you'd been shot, and I wanted to know what they were doing about it. So I asked, and then they asked me to help you, so I told them what I knew."
Anger, sometimes, is bitter cold.
It's harsher than red-hot rage.
There's the blue.
"You told them what you knew?"
"I told them who shot you."
I step toward her, tossing the envelope beside the stove as I go toe-to-toe with her, backing her up against the counter. "You don't know who shot me."
"Yes, I do," she says, her voice shaking. I can tell she's trying to hold it together. "I'm not an idiot. Just because you don't tell me things doesn't mean I can't figure them out on my own. I know who shot you."
"And you told them."
"I did," she says. "I told them, because it was better than the alternative."
"What, exactly, is the alternative, Karissa?" I ask, looking down at her. "Tell me why you really did it. Tell me why you talked to the police."
"I just told you why," she says. "If it went any further, one of you would end up dead. I couldn't just let that happen. So I told them my mother shot you, I reported her to the police, because I'd rather her be in jail than in a grave!"
These words aren't what I wanted to hear.
I hoped for a denial.
A stitch of repudiation that I could cling to.
I needed her to tell me it was a misunderstanding.
That she would never talk to the police.
But she's confirming one of my worst fears.
"And the other stuff," I say. "Why did you tell them it?"
"What other stuff?"
"Come on, Karissa… you just told me you weren't an idiot. Don't act ignorant now. They know things… things they wouldn't know unless somebody told them. Things I did. Maybe I haven't flat out told you about them, but like you said, I don't have to. You can put it all together yourself. So tell me, sweetheart, did you tell them how much of a monster I am? How I killed your father… how I killed your professor?"
The color drains from her face.
She knows I did it, but I never blatantly confessed to her before.
"I didn't say anything."
Upset.
That's putting it mildly.
Inside, I'm a fucking mess.
"I'm fine," I lie. Blatantly. She can tell I'm not fine. "How are you?"
"Fine." She eyes me warily. "Seriously, are you okay? Did something happen?"
Did something happen? Yeah, something happened. My gaze shifts to the envelope as I shake my head. "Do you trust me, Karissa?"
"Uh…" She hesitates, tossing the spatula in the sink. "I'm trying to. I trust you won't hurt me, if that's what you mean, but as far as really trusting you… I don't know. I guess I do. Why?"
"Just curious," I say, strolling into the kitchen. "And do you think I should trust you?"
"Of course."
"Because I started to," I say, "and that wasn't easy for me. It took a lot for me to give you my trust again."
"I know," she says, her voice quiet. "You can trust me."
"So there isn't anything you want to tell me?" I ask. "Nothing you want to get off your chest?"
Her brow furrows at my line of questioning. "No."
"Nothing at all?"
"No, nothing." Her expression is full of confusion. "What is this about, Naz?"
Wordlessly, I stare at her, before opening the envelope and reaching inside. Holding it up, I pull out the top photograph, just far enough for her to see what it is. She stares at it blankly for a moment before her eyes widen with recognition. Her gaze darts straight to me, panicked, that fear returning.
The knife in my chest is being twisted.
"Where did you get that?" she asks. "Who took it?"
"Kelvin. You remember Kelvin, right? The bouncer from the club? I suppose some of those times you felt like you were being watched, you actually were."
Her eyes widen even further. "You had me followed? You said you didn't. You lied to me!"
"I lied to you?" I ask incredulously, shaking the photograph in her face. "You told me I could trust you."
"You can," she says. "That's not what it looks like. I don't know what he told you, but it's not what it seems."
"It isn’t? Because it seems to me, Karissa, like you got caught talking to the police."
"I didn't get caught. It wasn't like that."
"It wasn't? Because I don't remember you telling me about it. I don't remember you coming to me."
"That's because you were hurt," she says, shaking her head as she turns the stove off, abandoning whatever she's cooking. "Jesus, Naz, you'd just been shot! You had enough to deal with. I was trying to be strong… for you, for me… for us. I was trying, okay? And every time I left the house, every time I went somewhere, those detectives were around. So I talked to them."
"You talked to them."
"Yes, when you were injured."
"When I was injured," I say. "You talked to them."
"Ugh, stop that!" she growls. "Stop repeating me. I went there because they wouldn't leave us alone. I went there because you were hurt, Naz, because you'd been shot, and I wanted to know what they were doing about it. So I asked, and then they asked me to help you, so I told them what I knew."
Anger, sometimes, is bitter cold.
It's harsher than red-hot rage.
There's the blue.
"You told them what you knew?"
"I told them who shot you."
I step toward her, tossing the envelope beside the stove as I go toe-to-toe with her, backing her up against the counter. "You don't know who shot me."
"Yes, I do," she says, her voice shaking. I can tell she's trying to hold it together. "I'm not an idiot. Just because you don't tell me things doesn't mean I can't figure them out on my own. I know who shot you."
"And you told them."
"I did," she says. "I told them, because it was better than the alternative."
"What, exactly, is the alternative, Karissa?" I ask, looking down at her. "Tell me why you really did it. Tell me why you talked to the police."
"I just told you why," she says. "If it went any further, one of you would end up dead. I couldn't just let that happen. So I told them my mother shot you, I reported her to the police, because I'd rather her be in jail than in a grave!"
These words aren't what I wanted to hear.
I hoped for a denial.
A stitch of repudiation that I could cling to.
I needed her to tell me it was a misunderstanding.
That she would never talk to the police.
But she's confirming one of my worst fears.
"And the other stuff," I say. "Why did you tell them it?"
"What other stuff?"
"Come on, Karissa… you just told me you weren't an idiot. Don't act ignorant now. They know things… things they wouldn't know unless somebody told them. Things I did. Maybe I haven't flat out told you about them, but like you said, I don't have to. You can put it all together yourself. So tell me, sweetheart, did you tell them how much of a monster I am? How I killed your father… how I killed your professor?"
The color drains from her face.
She knows I did it, but I never blatantly confessed to her before.
"I didn't say anything."
