“Fuck you!” I’ve never said that to anyone in my life and it feels . . . good. Satisfying. Empowering. “Fuck you and your explanations. You lied to me. Got close to me, tricked me by pretending to be someone else, and then you get me in bed, have sex with me like it’s some sort of sick joke and . . . now what? Were you going to tell Lisa Swanson all about me? How you fooled me into believing you’re a good guy who’s interested in me instead of someone from my past? Someone I’d rather forget?”
That last line is a lie. I’m just trying to hurt him and from the look on his face, I think it worked.
“Katie, stop. Listen.” He grabs hold of my upper arms and I try to shake him off but it’s no use. He’s too strong. “I am a good guy who’s interested in you. I swear. I care about you, Katie. I always have.”
He always has. Those words touch me, despite my anger. “Then why the lies?” I hate that I respond to his hands on me. My skin is tingling, my body warm at having him so near. I want to drop-kick him. Nail him in the balls with my foot and watch him slump to the floor, moaning in agony. Anything to see him feel even a fraction of the pain I’m currently experiencing. “Why, Ethan? Or should I say Will?”
He flinches, as if he doesn’t like being called that. So many questions run through my mind, none that I can ask, because that would mean I care and he’s the absolute last person I should care about.
Ethan is really my Will. My Will. I can’t believe it. I seriously cannot believe this is happening. Why all the lies, the trickery? What did he hope to gain from this? I don’t understand.
“If you could calm down for just a moment, I can explain,” he starts, but his words only increase my anger.
“I don’t want to hear your shitty explanations.” I jerk out of his hold and push past him, but I hear him fall into step behind me, like he’s chasing me through his house. I go to the living room in search of my purse and shoes and I find them both, slipping on my boots and grabbing my purse so I can sling it over my shoulder.
“Katie, goddamn it, wait,” he demands as I make my way to the front door.
I pause there, my hand on the doorknob, my head bent. I’m not crying, which I find hard to believe, but I’m so pissed, so utterly baffled and in disbelief over what I’ve just discovered, I swear I’m in shock.
“I-I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t even begin to explain what happened, how we both ended up here, but just know that I never . . . meant to hurt you.”
Closing my eyes, I press my forehead against the cool wood of the front door. My mind races with endless questions. Did he do this on purpose? Did he really try to hurt me? Trick me? It feels like it. It feels like the worst trick in the world. And now that I’ve found out he’s talking to Lisa Swanson, just like his father is, I feel utterly betrayed.
Completely destroyed.
Thank goodness I followed him back to his place. He’d suggested leaving my car and driving back here with him yesterday, but I’d wanted my car as an option in case I needed to escape.
And I’ve never needed to escape more than I do right at this very moment.
“I don’t want to see you ever again,” I say to the door, unable to look at him. I don’t think I could bear it. “I don’t know why you did this, why you wanted to trick me, but you did. You got one over on me. Congratulations.”
I open the door and burst outside, running down the sidewalk toward my car. I can feel him behind me but he doesn’t chase after me and despite everything within me yelling that I shouldn’t look back, I shouldn’t turn around . . .
I do.
He’s standing in his doorway, his face full of so much pain, I feel my heart crack. “I fucked up,” he says. “I’m sorry. I can’t make you understand what I’ve done without a chance to explain. A chance to tell you everything.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I practically spit out at him, pushing down the curiosity that fills me. I unlock and open my car door, about to slide inside when I hear him say one more thing.
“I never, ever meant to hurt you, Katie. I hope you know that. That’s the last thing I ever want to do to you. I’ve thought about you every day for years. Wondered if you were okay, hoped that you were healing. When I saw you on TV . . .”
My heart sinks. It was the interview that caused him to find me. I should never have done it. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say wearily. “What’s done is done. You had your fun. I hope this was all worth it.”
I climb into the car and shut the door behind me, starting up the engine and backing out of his driveway. He watches me the entire time, his hands clutching the doorframe, his expression one of complete and utter pain.
He looks the way I feel.
The tears flow freely during the entire hour-long drive home. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this.
I do know that I’ll never be the same.
Rage fuels me. Makes me do stupid things.
I destroyed my bedroom, specifically the bed. I tore off the comforter and the sheets, threw the pillows so hard against the wall they knocked down the painting I had hanging there, some stupid abstract bullshit art I bought from a client as a goodwill gesture.
Always hated that stupid fucking painting.
Found my phone on the floor, discarded by Katie. Lisa Swanson’s message still flashed and I went into the conversation, typed off a message, and hit send.
FUCK OFF BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Didn’t make me feel any better, though, sending that message.
I run my hands over my face, through my hair. The one good thing in my life, the one girl who made me feel worthy of something, and I hurt her. Ruined our relationship as quickly as we formed it. Why the fuck did I do it? Why did I keep such a big secret from her? What did I really think I’d gain out of this, by lying to her?
Instead of being cautious and keeping my distance, I dived right in. Reached out to her, contacted her, spent time with her, grew to care for her all over again, fell a little in love with her . . .
And fucked it all up.
My heart hurts. It fucking aches. I rub a hand over my chest as I survey the damage, ready to do more damage when my phone rings. I grab it, see that the number has been blocked, and for some strange reason I think it might be Katie, so I answer it.
It’s not Katie.
“Is this William Monroe?”
Lisa Swanson’s voice is unmistakable.
“What do you want?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Just to talk,” she says hurriedly. Like she’s afraid I might end the call. She’s right. I’m ready to. “Your father . . . he said he was still in contact with you.”
I close my eyes, letting the misery and dread course over me. Great. Given up by my father. Not a surprise. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Did you see the interview with Katherine Watts? I’ll let you tell your side of the story, just like she did. The interview will be completely unbiased, just you talking. Nothing else,” Lisa explains.
“You attacked Katie,” I say. “You threw a few surprises at her—don’t deny it.”
Lisa sighs. “I had to. I won’t do the same to you.”
“I don’t buy it. Not for a minute.” I end the call before she can get another word in. I already said too much, revealed too much. She knows who I am. She knows how to get in contact with me.
My father didn’t have this number; he doesn’t even know my new name. I made sure of that. So how did he find out? Or did he? Was this all Lisa’s doing? And if so, will she run off and tell him my new identity?
I press my hands against my face and scrub them over my cheeks before I run them up over my head, tugging on my hair. Fuck. This is bad. Worse than bad. Not only have I ruined everything with Katie, I’ve put myself at risk for the media finding me. Hell, the media has found me. The chance my father could find me, too?
Pretty much guaranteed.
After everyone went to bed I sneaked into the family room and turned on the TV, keeping
the volume low. It was almost eleven thirty. The show would start soon. I was anxious; my palms were sweaty and my heart was racing.
I would see him soon. Hear his testimony. Hear his voice. I hadn’t heard him speak in so long and I missed it. Missed him.
Ridiculous, considering I really didn’t know him, but true.
The commercial ended and the theme music started. A news show that had dedicated itself to the trial of Aaron William Monroe, it gave an update every night. Clips from the trial, analysis from lawyers who’d turned into TV personalities, recaps of testimony, of the crime, interviews with the victims’ various family members.
I’d never been allowed to watch it. My parents were too worried I’d get . . . scared, I guess. They never allowed me to do anything. I wanted to watch it so bad. I wanted to see everything despite my fear, my hatred and fear of Aaron Monroe.
Tonight, though, I wanted to see Will.
I watched, anxious for them to get to the recap. They spoke of Will, flashed photos of him from when we were first discovered. He looked the same as I remembered, but that was a couple of years ago. I knew he’d changed. I’d changed, too. I’d grown a few inches, my hair was longer, my face not as full. I had breasts that I hid in baggy shirts and a narrow waist that the shirts covered up, too. I didn’t want to grow up and be a woman. I was almost fifteen.
Couldn’t I stay a kid forever?
The newscaster started talking about today’s trial activities, spoke of Will’s testimony. He was on the stand for the prosecution for over two hours and when it was time for the defense to ask questions, they didn’t. That seemed to shock everyone.
It didn’t shock me, because I knew Will had spoken the truth.
The TV shows went to footage of the trial, and there he was. Will sat on the stand, wearing a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his expression earnest as he listened to what the prosecuting attorney had to say. I moved to sit on the floor and scooted closer, wanting to get a good look at him.
Just as I figured, he looked different. His hair wasn’t as dark, not that unnatural black anymore, which confirmed my earlier suspicion that he dyed it. No more piercings, either, not on his lip or eyebrow. He looked older. His jaw was so strong, his expression almost unforgiving as he spoke of his father in this sort of flat, monotone voice. He squinted every once in a while and I wondered if he needed glasses.
I listened to his voice as he spoke. It was deeper and he sounded so much older. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle. He was a completely different boy than the one I first met.
Reaching for my wrist, I touched the angel charm that dangled from the bracelet Will gave me. I’d put it back on recently. My parents hadn’t a clue who gave it to me. I’m pretty sure they didn’t even notice I owned it, and I wasn’t about to tell them about it.
They’d take it away from me. And the bracelet was the last link I had to Will.
The only link.
“Did you have anything to do with the abduction of Katherine Watts, Mr. Monroe?” the prosecuting attorney asked Will.
His expression turned stony. “No,” he said vehemently. “I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he’d taken her.”
“Only when you found her in the storage shed within twenty-four hours of the kidnapping did you know she was there, on the property.”
“Yes.” He sighed, a flash of vulnerability crossing his face. I recognized that look. It was one I’d seen many times when we’d been together. When he walked me to the police station. “When I first found her, I—panicked. I didn’t know what to do, how she got there, and I ran away.”
“Why did you run away?”
“I was scared. I couldn’t believe there was a girl chained up in our storage shed.” He visibly swallowed. “I was afraid if he knew that I knew, I’d be in trouble.”
My heart cracked. He looked so sad, so . . . destroyed.
“But you finally went back to her. What happened next?”
“I told her I was going to help her escape.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t let her stay in that shed. He was—he was hurting her. I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk her life. He would’ve killed her if I left her there.”
Tears streamed down my face. He was right. His father would have killed me. I knew it. Will knew it, too.
“So you saved her,” the attorney said.
“It was the right thing to do.” Will paused, clearing his throat. “It was the only thing to do.”
I wake with a gasp, my heart thumping wildly, my breathing harsh in my throat. I sit up and push my hair out of my face, knowing the dream that I had wasn’t really a dream, but a memory.
A memory of that night I watched Will’s testimony on TV. He’d looked so different, so grown-up.
I realize now he’d looked a lot like Ethan.
Closing my eyes, I fight back the tears. I’m such an idiot. How could I not have seen it? Especially these last few days, when he’d reminded me of Will so strongly. Was I in some sort of strange state of denial? You’d think I’d want to find Will, to thank him for saving me, let him know how much he still means to me, even after all these years.
I flop back on the bed and close my eyes, sling my arm over my face. He hasn’t tried to text or call me and it’s been five days since I fled his house. He’s either giving me time or letting me go.
That last part hurts. More than I’d like to admit.
Mom has been calling. So has Brenna. I’ve been short with them, blaming my mood on schoolwork. But I’ve neglected the papers I need to write, and the last test I took, I barely passed.
All I can think about is Ethan and what he did to me. How he lied. I don’t understand why. What sort of sick thrill did he get out of tricking me? Is he really that messed up? I want to believe he sought me out with good intentions, but I don’t know.
I guess I’ll never know.
Despite it all, I miss him. I think of what we shared that night. How I bared myself to him, the intimate moments we shared. I want more. I wish I could have more, but I don’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone. I let one person into my life after so many years of never opening up to anyone and it ends in complete disaster.
I can’t let anyone else in.
Ever.
Glancing at my phone, I see that it’s almost six a.m. and I give up pretending I’ll go back to sleep. I crawl out of bed and take a shower. Go about my morning tasks, getting dressed, drying my hair, eating breakfast, and checking my phone. I need to run a few errands and I’m about to leave when I receive a call from an unfamiliar number. I’m hesitant to answer it, should just let it go to voicemail, but something compels me to answer that call.
“Hello?”
“Katherine? This is Lisa Swanson. We need to talk.”
Playlist
Music always tends to play a part in my writing process and this book was no exception. Here are some of the songs that I listened to while writing NTUA:
“Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS (Obviously. I adored INXS back in the day.)
“Lost Stars” by Adam Levine (This is for sure Will’s song.)
“Atlas” by Coldplay
“OctaHate” by Ryn Weaver
“Daughters” by John Mayer (For Katie)
“If It Hurts” by Gallant
“Water Fear” by Katie Herzig
“Small Things” by Ben Howard
“Till Sunrise” by Goldroom featuring Mammals
“Pendulum” by FKA twigs (I loooove her music.)
“Medusa” by GEMS
“Ripped Apart” by Anthony Green
“Waiting Game” by Banks
“Every Breath You Take” by The Police
“Carousel” by Melanie Martinez
“Elastic Heart” by Sia with The Weeknd
“Round Here” by Counting Crows
“Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry (If you read the book—obviously.)
Ethan and
Katherine’s story continues in the conclusion to bestselling author Monica Murphy’s darkly sexy, emotionally powerful two-part tale of forbidden love
Read on for a special sneak peek.
Coming soon from
The text came on a late Tuesday afternoon, the familiar ding indicating I received a message ringing loudly from across the room. My phone sits on the coffee table. I’m sitting in my recliner, tapping away on my laptop as I answer an email from a client.
When I finally send off the email, I get up and go to my phone, hitting the button to see who the text is from.
And proceed to drop the phone on the floor, I’m so startled by the name flashing on my screen.
Katie.
What do you want to talk about?
It’s been a week since I sent that one text during a weak moment, when I was feeling particularly low and sad. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life. I don’t remember my mom. Dad was never around and didn’t care. I coped. I dealt with shit on my own and I preferred it that way.
Katie reenters my life and she’s like a bright light I can’t resist. Her warmth, her sweetness, the way she made me feel like a goddamn hero every time she fucking looked at me. I’d never experienced anything like it. I began to crave her. Need her. And once I lost her . . .
I’d never been so utterly alone, felt so incredibly lonely as I did after she left me.
You’re willing to talk to me?
I hit send and wait anxiously for her reply. Within seconds I get it.
Yes.
Running my hand through my hair, I realize I’m sweating. Shit. How are we going to do this? Like two civil adults who can barely speak to each other? Will she want to meet me in public? If it’s somewhere private, at her place or mine, forget it. I’m done for. I won’t be able to keep my hands off her.
Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1) Page 31