Until I Wrote Him
“Then tell me…what exactly did he use eighteen-point-seven million dollars to do? And why does he still live in a rat’s nest without almost any means of survival?”
Her whole body goes still.
Frozen.
A muscle in her cheek twitches.
I’ve hit something, an open, raw nerve.
The kind that bleeds truth.
“Exactly,” I murmured.
I glance forward again, fingers curling around my knee.
My voice drops lower, sharper.
“You know what life taught me? Sometimes the devil you know turns out to be your worst enemy.”
The words taste like memory, smoke and gunpowder and someone’s scream echoing in my skull.