Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Inside, the air smells like motor oil and old memories.
I think we were happy once. But it's been so long ago I barely remember it. Back before my mom left him. I always thought she was tired of being tethered to a cop. Maybe she was just tired of being chained to one who didn't deserve the badge.
I'll never know. She died before my freshman year of high school in a boating accident.
I slip through the door into the kitchen. The space is too silent, too still. Everything is neat and tidy, an extension of my father. Even here in his own home, appearances matter to him.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Except for me. I don't fit here. Even when I tried to fake it, tried to pretend I was the perfect daughter, a storm brewed under the surface. I didn't belong then, and I belong even less now.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart echoing in my ears. Upstairs, I hesitate on the threshold to my bedroom. It no longer feels like mine.
The girlish pink feels out of place, the innocence of it jarring. The room hasn't changed at all, but I have. In ways so profound I don't know that I'll ever be able to explain. I placed my hand in Coda's and let him carry me into the dark. And somewhere in the pitch blackness of his soul, I found myself.
I'm not the perfect daughter. I'm not innocent laughter. I'm not girlish pink and bright smiles. I'm his. He fucked his way into my soul, claiming it for the night.
I yank a duffel bag from beneath my bed and stride to the closet. Clothes, a few photographs, the journal that holds my darkest secrets—it all gets crammed together in a hasty bid for escape.
"Karina?" My father's voice, thick and slurred, slices through the silence.
I freeze, my heart stopping. My lungs cease to function.
He's here. He isn't supposed to be here.
Yet, his shadow looms behind me like a wraith.
I turn slowly to face him.
I know instantly that he's been drinking. His blond hair hangs dull and lifeless over his bloodshot gray eyes. Those eyes, usually hard and unyielding, struggle to focus on me. His square jaw is shadowed with stubble, and his tall, once intimidating frame seems to waver, as if his legs can't decide whether to support his weight or send him pitching toward the floor.
"Where the fuck have you been?" His words are a growl, slurred but sharp enough to cut. A half-empty bottle dangles from his fingers.
It's barely mid-afternoon, and he's drunk. Lovely. Something must have happened at work. He always picks up a bottle when it does.
I keep my hands steady, folding a sweater into my duffel bag. "At a friend's," I say, my voice calm.
"Friend," he spits the word like poison. "Is that what you call the men who fuck you?"
Hurt blooms inside me, fast and fierce. It clouds everything else, but I can't let it show. Not to him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Like mother, like daughter," he sneers. There it is, the lowest blow. He always knows just where to land it.
My mother wasn't perfect, but she loved me. And he's never forgiven her for not loving him enough.
Anger bubbles up, hot and fast. "Don't talk about her." My voice trembles, betraying the storm inside me.
He ignores me.
"Whoring yourself out, Kari? Is that how you've been getting by?" We both know he says it, not because he thinks it's true, but because he wants to inflict as much damage as possible. She isn't here to hurt, so he'll hurt me in her place. It's not the first time, though this is the worst it's ever been.
"Stop it!" I shout, my frustration boiling over. "Just stop it! You don't get to talk to me that way."
"Don't raise your voice to me in my own home!" he bellows, and I almost laugh because this hasn't felt like a home in years. It's a prison.
"Your home?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I zip my bag. "This stopped being a home the moment she left, and you know it."
I push past him, practically running for the door and freedom. He tries to grab my arm, but he's too drunk and uncoordinated to do anything more than stumble into the wall.
My chest heaves as I try to contain my emotions, not sorrow and pain but fury. This is far from the first fight we've had, but it'll be the last time he speaks to me this way. I'm not his property, and I don't owe him an explanation. Especially not when I know what I do about him.
How dare he accuse me of being a whore when he's been fucking his way through half the department?