I don’t sleep.
Not in that bed. Not with Damien twenty feet away. Not with his words looping in my head.
*You made me weak. That’s why I destroyed you.*
At 3 AM, I give up. I slip out to the living room.
He’s awake. Sitting in the dark, staring at the Strip, neon painting his face in cold color.
“Can’t sleep either?” I ask.
“Never can. Not anymore.”
I should leave. Instead, I sit across from him.
Nothing between us is neutral anymore.
“Tell me about your mother.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You said your father used her medical care to control you. Tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know if this is truth… or another manipulation.”
A long silence.
“Her name is Eleanor. Fifty-eight. She was a concert pianist before MS destroyed her hands.” His voice softens. “Diagnosed when I was six
