by Lilah Grey
One sentence set me off; what would a full entry do?
I tell myself they’re just words, that they have no power, but I know it’s not true.
Words have power. They can damage you in ways more sinister than physical hurt. I'd prefer physical pain to emotional because at least you know it can get better over time. There's no expiration date on emotional hurt, no real promise that it will ever fade.
I can feel the words from my father’s journal being etched inside me one letter at a time. I don’t want to believe them, but deep down I know they’re probably true because he’d have no reason to lie. And to be honest, I’d thought the same thing a few times before.
I grab the knife’s hilt as I take it from the counter. I hold it in front of me, studying it, and then drag my fingertip along its fine edge. Sharp, cold, glittering steel that knows no difference between fruit or flesh.
It’s a professional-grade chef’s knife. Only the best for Luke. I’ve never used something this sharp before.
When I first started cutting, I was afraid to use anything sharper than the unfolded edge of a paper clip. I didn’t want to cut myself too deep. It may sound morbid, but I like the sight of blood; it doesn’t disgust me, but it doesn’t turn me on in some sick, psychopathic way.
It was a reminder. It reminded me that I was a living, breathing person, even though my stepmother saw me as a worthless human being, something to be abused.
I started on my thighs, moving on to my hips and arms when they became too raw and ruined. I cut anywhere that could be covered with clothing. I didn’t want anyone to notice. I didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. I knew what I was doing was harmful, but it was the only thing that let me feel anything at all.
I graduated to safety pins and needles, and then to razors and utility knives after they outgrew their effectiveness.
The cuts grew deeper the longer I suffered my stepmother’s abuse.
Thanks to my time at Millwood, I haven’t cut in years. The harsh snap of the rubber band against my skin helps with the urge to cut myself, but it does nothing for the urge I feel now.
I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. I need to calm down.
Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.
My mind returns to last night. I see Luke; he’s standing in his room naked. I bite down on my lip as I recall every inch of his deliciously muscled body as he started to pull his boxers up to his hips. I touch my neck as I feel his hands roaming all over me. Calm returns as I remember his scent when his lips were inches from mine.
My tongue slides across my lips.
I’ve always imagined his lips tasting of mint or cinnamon, something cool or something spicy. But I’m afraid I may never have the chance. If he wanted me, he would’ve kissed me last night when he had the chance. I was begging for it. My body ached for it. I know he felt it too.
But he left.
It’s what he does. He’s reckless with other people’s hearts and emotions. He gives you a taste of himself and then pulls back, leaving you wanting for something more than what he’ll ever give you.
I need to learn that and move on, but I can’t. Some lessons can’t be learned until it’s too late.
The corners of my eyes are wet, and when I open them, I can see the knife in my hand. I trace the edge with my finger, testing its sharpness one last time. The urge swells in my gut, spreading across my chest as it dances on my skin.
My finger reaches the tip just as I hear the front door slam, causing me to jerk. The blade slices into my palm; blood gushes out, covering the counter in splashes of crimson.
The knife falls out of my hand and clangs against the floor.
“Fuck,” I screech, clutching my hand, trying to stop the bleeding.
Shit, shit, shit.
My mind reels as my eyes dart around the room and then back to my hand. It looks worse than it feels. Blood is everywhere, but it isn’t all that painful.
I bend over and pick up the knife just as a tall, slender blonde—model gorgeous with porcelain skin—turns the corner and plants her right hand on her hip. She looks at me with her head cocked.
The expression on her face says it all: ‘Who the fuck are you?' ‘What the fuck are you doing?' and ‘Am I going to have to call the cops?'
My cheeks flush with heat as I gawk at the gorgeous woman in front of me. Of course Luke would be dating someone. Why wouldn’t he?
She’s wearing a white, scoop neck dress with a thin black belt cinched around her tiny waist. She wears it well and she knows it. Her perfume is bright and citrusy and cheerful, the complete opposite of her demeanor towards me.
She sucks on her lower lip as her bright blue eyes scan me. I know the look. I’ve seen it time and time again. She’s judging me, sizing me up, but then her gaze softens. She smiles.
“Are you the new maid?” she asks.
Excuse me?
“Maid?” I snap, walking toward her. “I’m Luke’s stepsister. Who the hell are you?”
“Olivia. Luke’s assistant.”
Assistant?
Of course, he'd have an assistant. Penthouse, G-Class Mercedes, a wardrobe of designer suits. What didn't Luke have?
“Oh, so you’re Libby!” She steps forward to greet me. “It’s so wonderful to—oh my God!”
Her alabaster complexion becomes almost translucent as she glimpses the blood dripping from my hand.
I’m still clutching the knife, and by the way I’m approaching, I’m sure she thinks I’m some crazy psychopath who’s found their next victim.
I try to alleviate the tension by setting the knife down on the counter.
“You surprised me when you barged in here,” I say, turning around and heading toward the sink. There’s smeared blood on my shirt and pants. I did look like a serial killer.
“Just tell me when it’s gone.” I can hear her heels clicking against the wood floor as she speeds away. “I don’t do blood.”
I wasn’t aware that people did or could do blood. Whatever that means.
“Yell if you need something.” Her voice echoes down the hall.
I watch as the blood mixes with the water, circling the drain before disappearing. After a few more minutes, I call out to Olivia.
“Yes?” Her voice echoes from Luke’s bedroom.
“Do you know where a first aid kit is?”
The second first aid kit I needed in less than a day. This was one roll I didn’t want to be on.
“Bathroom. Second drawer down.”
She certainly knew her way around this place. Was she sleeping with Luke? I wouldn’t put it past Luke to sleep with his assistant.
She was his type: tall, skinny, and beautiful, with more chest than ass. The thought of his hands on her naked body makes my skin crawl and flush with heat. I push the thoughts aside and dress my wound.
After bandaging myself up, I search for Olivia. She’s in Luke’s room, laying out clothes, rearranging things—touching his stuff.
Why was she touching his stuff?
It shouldn’t be bothering me this much, but I can’t help it.
I take a deep breath and calm myself down before walking into the room.
“What are you up to?” I ask, nodding to the stack of clothes in front of her.
“Packing for Luke's photo shoot in New York tomorrow.”
“Photo shoot? Is he a model or something?”
Olivia laughs as though I’ve just asked the most absurd question in the world. She continues to fold clothes, but after placing another shirt into his suitcase, she looks up at me.
“Oh, you were serious.” She frowns. “You really don't know what Luke does?”
I’m a little ashamed that I don’t, but it’s not my fault. After he left, he never contacted me, and I was too focused on my rehabilitation at Millwood to find out.
“Ever hear of Google?”
I nod. “Of course.”
Luke worshiped that company. I figured he'd end up working for them one d
ay.
“They'll be all but forgotten a decade from now. Fyrefly, Luke's company, will replace them as a household name.”
Olivia turns her attention back to Luke’s clothes. She presses out the creases in one of his shirts with the back of her hand.
“Artificial intelligence. Machine learning. Nanites that can single out cancerous cells before they have the chance to spread. Algorithms that know what you want before you want it.”
She shrugs. “Everything he does is on the bleeding edge. That’s why he’s going to New York. He’s being profiled for his work, along with his co-founder, Elliot.”
She laughs. “You don’t want to know the amount of begging and pleading I had to do in order to get him to sign off on this. He resists anything that takes him away from his work.”
I don’t respond, and Olivia doesn’t seem to care. She’s busy organizing the rest of Luke’s clothes into his suitcase.
It makes sense that Luke would start his own tech company. He was always programming things, taking technology apart to see how it worked. It drove Margaret crazy, but then she’d take her frustration out on me. He stopped dissecting our electronics once he realized that was happening.
Olivia zips up Luke’s suitcase and turns to me. “Have you packed yet?”
“What are you talking about?”
Packed? I wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re going with him,” she says. “Luke had me buy your ticket weeks ago.”
Luke bought my tickets weeks ago?
He planned this all along, well before he showed up at Buck Wild. Before…
A sick feeling wells in my stomach as I remember Rose’s warning.
No. It doesn’t make sense. Even though Luke was the last person to see Margaret alive, it doesn’t mean that he killed her.
I'm ashamed to entertain the idea.
Olivia snorts, pulling me out of my head. “That doesn’t surprise me. Luke isn’t the most forthcoming person.”
Understatement of the year…
“Do you need my help?” she asks. “I love organizing.”
That makes one of us.
“Actually, I don't have any other clothes with me.” I can feel my cheeks begin to flush as I rub the back of my neck. “I was sort of in a rush.”
She narrows her eyes. Does she even know what happened? I wouldn’t be surprised if Luke didn’t tell her.
“Don't you worry, Libby,” she says, standing up, wrapping an arm around me as she guides me out of the room. “I know exactly what you need.”
12
Libby
I had the most wonderful time with Olivia.
We went shopping downtown and bought all sorts of clothes and shoes and jewelry. And the best part about it: I didn’t pay for a single thing. It was all on Luke’s dime. My jaw dropped when she whipped out his credit card.
“Perks of the job,” she’d said with that blinding smile of hers.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they did. Olivia brought me to a spa—an actual spa with masseuses and mud baths and all sorts of fancy things. It had everything I never knew I wanted or needed.
“We need to treat ourselves,” Olivia had said. “Spending Luke’s money is exhausting.”
Olivia lived in a completely different world from mine, but it was a world that I could get used to.
I smile at Olivia as we exit Luke’s private elevator.
“Thank you again, Olivia. I had a wonderful time.”
Not a single negative thought entered my head the whole time I was with her. She was bubbly and personable. Basically the complete opposite of Luke.
Olivia laughs. “No problem at all. After what happened to you, you deserved it.”
I told her everything because Luke hadn’t filled her in. It had been eating away at me, so it was good to let it all out. She was kind and gracious as she listened to me drone on and on.
We might’ve had a rocky start, but Olivia was beginning to grow on me.
“And—wow—do you look amazing in that dress.” She bumps my shoulder as she unlocks the door. “I told you.”
I blush.
The dress wasn’t something I’d normally wear. It was too tight around the chest, a bit too revealing for my tastes. But when I saw the look on Olivia’s face after I walked out of the dressing room, I knew I had to have it. I wanted to see if Luke would have the same response.
We drop our bags at the door. The lights are on. Luke must be home. We walk side by side into the living room, chatting about nothing in particular when Luke's voice cuts through our conversation.
Both of us jump.
“Olivia. I’d like a word with you.” Luke’s voice, calm and measured, echoes through the air.
He’s leaning against the island, his forearms resting against its edge. His hands are clasped in front of him as his unrelenting gaze locks onto his assistant.
“Sure, Luke,” Olivia says, her hands trembling as she clutches the strap of her purse.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper into her ear. “He’s not going to fire you. I’ll make sure of that.”
Olivia gulps as she offers me a weak smile.
“Here’s your phone,” Luke says, handing it off to her as he passes by.
Uh oh.
Olivia had mentioned leaving her phone at the apartment and seemed nervous to be parted from it. I told her we could go back and retrieve it, but she declined. Luke was a big boy, and if he needed something, he could wait a couple of hours or do it himself.
I head back to the front of the apartment and grab the bags we left. I want to give Olivia and Luke space. As I near my bedroom, I can hear Crouton clawing at the door, whining.
I drop my bags and open the door.
“Oh my God, Crouton! I completely forgot to feed you.”
I’d be a terrible mother.
I check Crouton’s bowl in the corner of my room. It’s almost full.
Luke fed Crouton?
I’m a little stunned. Maybe there’s more to Luke than I give him credit for.
That thought is quickly shot down a few minutes later when he bursts into my room as I’m snuggling with Crouton, trying to make amends for my horrible parenting.
“What were you thinking?” he demands.
His abrupt entrance spooks Crouton off the bed and out the door.
“You’re going to have to be a little clearer,” I snap back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I can feel his hard gaze on my skin, smoldering. A few seconds later, it softens. He sits down on the bed and stares blankly at his open palms. After a few moments of silence, he speaks.
“You scared the shit out of me, Libby.” He runs his right hand through his hair, turning his gaze back to me. My stomach flips as his eyes lock onto mine. They look wet, but I know I’m imagining it.
“I told you not to leave. Do you understand what you did to me today? When I came home tonight, all I found was a bloody mess in the kitchen. You were gone.”
Regret washes over me as I see disappointment and sadness rise in his eyes. It’s too much to bear and I have to look away. I want to snap my rubber band, but I’d thrown it into the trash during the spa visit because I didn’t want any awkward questions.
I’ve never seen this side of him, caring and concerned. I didn’t know it could exist in him. He was always so tough and stoic. I never saw him show an ounce of emotion. Seeing this side of him was throwing me for a loop. A part of me I liked it, though. It reminded me of the time we spent together right before he left. He cared for me when I got really sick, when Damian had just cheated on me with my best friend.
I reach out to touch him, but I pull back.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave such a mess.”
“What the hell happened?” He grabs my bandaged hand, gently holding it.
My skin burns under his touch, and I forget his question.
“Are you okay?” he repeats as his fingers trace my ba
ndage.
“I’m fine. I was making lunch. Olivia surprised me, and I cut my hand. I got distracted, and we left to go shopping not long after that.”
“There wasn’t any food on the counter with the blood.”
It’s less a statement than an accusation. My stomach sinks. He sees through my lie, but I don’t want to tell him the real reason why I had the knife in my hand.
“Olivia must’ve put it away.”
“And skipped over the blood? Don’t lie to me, Libby.” His voice is gruff and laced with barbs. His concern was all an act. This is the Luke I knew so well.
“Don’t talk to me about honesty. You’re the one who won’t tell me why you brought me here.”
Heat rises in my chest as I remember my earlier conversation with Olivia.
“You booked me a ticket to New York weeks ago. You knew well before Margaret died that—”
“I’d tread carefully,” Luke cuts in. He pushes off the bed and stands up, folding his arms before turning around to face me. “It sounds to me like you’re about say something you might regret.”
He might be right, but I didn’t know what else to think. Dropping in on me wasn’t something random. It was premeditated, something he had in the works for a while. I can’t help but think Margaret’s death is related.
“You’re not giving me much to go on. I’m supposed to fill in the spaces you leave blank.”
“I gave you Henry’s journal. That should be enough.”
“Yeah, enough to make me even more concerned… about you.” My voice is soft and brittle, hardly above a whisper.
“Do you honestly think I'd kill my mother?” I can feel the force of his booming voice rattle in my chest as it blows over me.
“I’m sorry,” Luke says after taking a deep breath. “I’m just a little stressed.”
“If you want me on your side, then you need to give me something to go on,” I say flatly.
“It’s late. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
And there he goes again. Anytime I want something from him, he recedes. He deflects and puts it off for some time that will never come.