Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Then I think of Colten, and all the tears release.
Mom covers her mouth to hold back her sob as she shakes her head. “Tell me what she said.”
I hate myself. I’ve harmed myself, but I’ve never truly hated myself until now. Rubbing my quivering lips together, I wipe as many tears as I can. “She said I wasn’t one of the girls he killed. I was …”
“Him,” she whispers while her face contorts into anguish while her eyes fill with more tears.
I hold my breath to keep from sobbing. Clench my teeth. I don’t breathe a single breath while returning a slow nod.
Mom tries to stifle her own sob, and I don’t know who should be consoling who. It feels like this shared burden. Like we’re carrying something heavy, and we don’t know who will give out first.
Who will stumble?
Who will surrender under the weight of truth?
I feel guilty for sharing this with her, but at the same time, I feel seen. Even if I don’t have a mother’s love in my soul, I recognize it as the realest, most undeniably perfect part of human existence. Not all mothers are good ones, but I believe the ability to nurture without expecting anything in return is what makes women the sole reason humanity still exists.
They are the peacekeepers.
The givers of life.
The healers of hearts.
And there is me. I am an imposter. An undeserving punishment to anyone who has let me touch their life.
And … I hate myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the tears from my face.
Mom shakes her head. “No. God no …” She’s out of her chair and wrapping her arms around me from behind my chair. “Don’t you ever apologize for anything. This will not define your life. I am the one who is sorry that you have to experience this.”
“You did n-nothing.” I lay my hands over hers on my shoulders.
“I should have known,” she sobs in my ear, hugging me harder.
“No, Mom.” I wriggle my way out of her hold to turn toward her. Standing, I pull her into my arms.
We cry, clinging to each other until the back door opens, and my dad steps inside, removing his boots while eyeing us. “Jo, what are you doing here? What happened?”
I take a step away from my mom and wipe my eyes. “Um …”
“She and Colten are having issues.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll call him. He should know better.”
“What? No.” I shake my head.
Mom grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Cool your jets, Isaac. They’ll work it out on their own.”
We haven’t talked about Colten. I don’t know how to read my mom. Does she not want my dad to know? Will he not believe me the way he didn’t believe anything the psychic in New Orleans said to them years earlier?
“Have you stopped having those crazy dreams? That’s probably your problem. You need to let that crap go, Jo.”
Let it go.
Chin up, Jo.
Dust off your knees, Jo.
Don’t you dare cry, Jo.
How would he feel if he knew and actually believed I was a man (the boy he wanted) in another life? And I didn’t cry over skinned knees. I killed little girls. Would that version of me be better than the daughter who didn’t live up to his expectations less than five percent of the time? And that five percent was my lack of a penis. An impossible standard at the time.
“Isaac …” Mom wipes her face and gives him a warning.
“It was a long drive. I’m going to take a bath.” I jab my thumb over my shoulder.
Dad continues to eye me. Beneath his gruff comments about my dreams, I sense his genuine concern. We’ve spent so much time together over the years, hunting and fishing. I count on him not only as my real father in life, but as a friend too. However, he can’t fix this for me, and that will eat him alive. It’s not that he’ll believe me, just that he can’t “fix” my messed-up mind.
Oh, how I wish it were as simple as weekly counseling and a magic pill.
Mom grabs her phone from the counter and holds up the screen.
Colten.
She hands it to me. I try to resist taking it, but she shoves it into my chest. “Don’t shut him out.”
I don’t have a choice.
“Really? My mom’s phone?” I answer it, climbing the stairs, feeling exhausted and full of despair.
“I’m not walking away, Josie.”
“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.” I close the bathroom door and turn on the water to the tub. “Why did you call my mom?”
“Looking for you. I’m sitting in your living room, and you’re not here. Your toothbrush is gone. I assumed; I hoped you went home.”
“Because my parents like you and you think they’ll put in a good word for you? Sorry to disappoint you, Detective Mosley, this isn’t about you.”