Page 109 of Bad Intentions

She genuinely looks at me like she wants my opinion on this deranged story. “Think about what?”

“The story. You think it’ll sell?” She tosses the can away, into the hay, picks up her gun, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I bet it will. I bet it’ll make me a lot of money. I’ll give interviews. They say they pay good money for those. 48 Hours. Dr. Phil. Maybe even a movie or something. A book deal, definitely.”

I don’t know if this woman has looked in the mirror lately, but the love story she’s pushing definitely borders on deranged.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, all the while working the knots behind me, undoing them, which already makes the ropes loosen, so I hold them tight not to give myself away.

Her expression becomes vicious. “Because he left me here, in this rotten town,” she says, punctuating the words as she stabs the air with her gun. “But he came back for you.”

“You ruined people’s lives, and you want to tell a story like it’s some sort of epic romance?”

“I’m going to tell my story. The way I want to tell it. That’s where you come in, with your traumatized childhood.”

“That’s not true.”

“I mean, you grew up almost an orphan.”

“I was raised by my grandmother,” I argue angrily.

“Semantics. If she raised you the way she raised Alysha, that’s a low bar.”

“Screw you,” I spit out.

“Yeah, yeah. I have the knife that you used to stab your daddy.”

“I didn’t do it!” I almost shout.

“It has your fingerprints. You see, when he showed up in town, you were so angry that he left you and your mom that you killed him.”

“No one will believe you.”

“Ha!” Her face brightens up. “You’d be surprised.”

“No one will believe someone like you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what is that supposed to mean?”

“My mom is long gone, and still, people remember her, talk about her. You’re jealous of the girl who made this town and people like you march to the beat of her drum. No one even remembers who you are.”

In seconds, spite crosses her face again. “They will. Trust me. When I’m done with you, they will. And your mom is dead. Serves her right.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“She dumped you. Left you at your grandmother’s house, because she didn’t want to have anything to do with you. What mother does that?”

Her words sting, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard them. “She was young. She was scared.”

“She wanted to party, drink booze, bang guys, and snort the good white stuff until her brain turned to mush.”

I don’t have a response because maybe part of this is true. “It was an unfortunate accident that took her too early,” I say quietly, my last defense.

Mallory Blain snorts. “That wasn’t an accident.” There’s an evil glint in her eyes as she leans her elbows on her knees, the gun dangling in her hand. “I went to see her in Philly, two years after you were born. To see how far she’d fallen. Pretty far, if you ask me. Considering she was ready to snort and inject about anything that she could get her hands on. And I brought a present for her.”

A nasty feeling starts inside me, and I don’t want to hear what this woman has to say anymore.

“That’s right,” she says, scowling. “I brought her a baggie of fentanyl, told her it was the best cocaine you could get in Philly. And she snatched it from my hand like I owed her. Snorted it right away, too. She was a junkie. She had no future, and she had to pay for what she did in the past.”

Her stories are disturbing, but what she’s telling me right now is a gut punch. My skin prickles. My throat tightens.