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The world stops.

I’m going to throw up.

“You did,” she says. I fight for control of my expression, of my heart rate, but it’s not enough. “Oh my god, you did! I knew it, I—I knew it.”

Felicity giggles. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“If you don’t let me help, I’ll release that episode instead.”

How

The fuck

Does Felicity Keating know that.

I mean.

Yeah, of course I lied during the trial. The wave of doubters who turned up their nose at my testimony, the pissed-off lawyer frustratedly cross-examining a child, How did you know about the others’? How did you KNOW? They were onto something. They knew I’d never told the truth in my life. They knew I’d never tell the cops anything beyond what they needed to lock Dad away for good. Sure, I was a kid, and not the best liar at that age—I messed up a few times—but it worked out in the end. I put Dad in prison and only gave myself a few years of therapy.

Why would I tell anyone what really happened? Why would I ever put myself through that again?

But to answer Felicity’s question: Yes, I helped kill Jane Doe.

And seven more before her.

My next words come out weak. “You bitch.”

“I’ve already recorded the episode,” Felicity says. “It’s ready to go, right on my computer, and there’s a lot of people I could send it to. A lot of news stations. Those guys making the documentary. Your mom. Wait, does she know? I don’t think she knows. She’d never shut up about it if she knew.”

If the producer finds out, there’s no way it won’t end up in the documentary. If the world finds out, I’ll never get out from under the weight of it. I’ll never be able to touch a pen or railing or doorknob without everyone seeing the red handprints I leave behind.

And if Mom finds out? I won’t only lose the trust fund; she’ll rip out all the stops. She’ll dig up photos of bruises and cuts on her arms from my elementary school tantrums. Call the family lawyer to figure out how to get rid of me for good, and do as much damage to me as she can before she gives up custody. Then she’ll publish a bestselling book if she can find a decent ghostwriter and live large off the speech circuit for the rest of her life, the way she’s always wanted: My husband and my child were monsters, here’s how I survived.

If Mom and the producer and the world find out what really happened—

I’ll never escape.

Ever.

Even with my vision tunneled, the start of a panic attack or meltdown bearing down on my skull, I’m smart enough to recognize when I’m backed into a corner. At the very least, if I go along with this for now, it’ll buy me time to dig my way out.

“Fine,” I say.

Felicity’s bloody face cracks into a weird not-smile. It’s all teeth.

I say, “Meet me at the natural history museum. Wednesday at four. We can talk about this when your face isn’t”—I swallow hard—”pissing blood everywhere.”

Felicity takes the switchblade away from my face. Finally. She visibly slumps, looking a bit woozy. “Deal.”

After she leaves, after she steps over me with her stained hands and ruined sweater, after she bows over the makeup-scattered sink to wrap her open wound and cover the stains with her jacket, I clamp my hands over my mouth and scream.

[Video description: A beautiful woman in her forties, with long dark red hair and a comfortable jeans-sweater combo, gazes pensively out a bright, sunny window in her living room and sips a glass of wine. Text reads, “Tragedy teaches so much. Be open to learning from it every day.”]

Liked by katielove732 and 12.3K others

bellamy.slaughter Seven years ago, my husband was accused of some of the most heinous crimes humanity is capable of. I was forced to confront not only that the man I loved had been a monster all along, but also the idea of surviving as a mom without him.

Now he is in prison where he can never hurt another soul again, and each day shows me how to make it as a single mother in our world. If you feel the same pain that I do, just know: You can do it, momma! You are so much stronger than you know!