Page 166 of The Initial Insult

I guess that’s fair.

“No,” I say. “Nothing’s funny.” Upstairs, a roar of laughter contradicts me.

“Tress . . . ,” I say, my words dry in my throat. “I need to tell you something.”

She hears the weight in my words, looks up. “Yeah?”

“Your dad was cheating on your mom.”

Her eyes, still blank, stare at me, and I think maybe I didn’t say it. Maybe I’ve spent so much time not saying the important things that when I finally tried, the words didn’t actually come out. Then she’s up, one bare foot sliding in the pool of her own blood as she comes at me, pointing the trowel in my face.

“That’s a fucking lie! You’re a fucking liar!” she screams, voice cracking.

I shake my head. “No. No, Tress, I’m not.”

I don’t have the energy to be scared, or upset, or angry in return. I don’t have anything left, and it must show, because she backs off, the outrage in her eyes dying a little as she considers the possibility.

Tress might not have had her parents her whole life, but she also didn’t have what I do—the experience of watching a marriage fall apart. She didn’t get to see the big fights, the small digs, the knowing glances, the laden words said in conversational tones. Maybe the Montors were careful not to let her see, or maybe she never knew, and she’s held on tight to just the good things, canonizing them in her memory.

Well . . . the Montors weren’t saints. I can say that, for sure.

Wait . . . I can?

I pause, digging deep, wondering where that came from. “Tress . . . I think—”

“Shut up!” She whirls, throwing the trowel at me. “Shut the fuck up!”

I can’t dodge it; can hardly move my head or keep my legs under me. Luckily, Tress is way too emotional to have good aim. The trowel bounces off the wall a foot from my head, ricocheting back at her to hit the lone light bulb. There’s a flash of light, a pop, a yelp from Tress.

And then . . . it’s utterly black.

Chapter 70

Tress

There’s a blue halo in my vision, a burn on my eyes from looking at the bulb when it blew. I can’t see anything, but I’m down on my hands and knees, feeling for my phone. I had it in my pocket, but it fell out, clattering to the floor when I jumped as the light exploded.

Shit, shit, shit.

My hand slides through my blood, already growing tacky in the coolness of the basement. I bump against the chair, and it screeches across the stone floor, unnaturally loud in the silence. Utter silence.

“Felicity?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything, and I’m scrambling now. I need that phone. Need the light. Need to . . . Shit, what do I even need to do? Fix everything? Go back in time and undo it all? My fingers brush against the phone and I grab it, relieved when it lights up, despite the crack across the screen. The streaming feed comes on, the viewer number still healthy.

“Can’t get enough, can you?” I ask.

And from the darkness, comes my mother’s voice, echoing me.

“Can’t get enough, can you?”

Chapter 71

Felicity

Fifth Grade / The Night Of

“Can’t get enough, can you?” Annabelle says, her mouth tight as she flips Lee’s phone shut, putting it back in the cup holder.