But the joke’s on her: I was paying attention. I’m always paying attention.
I set down the empty glass. The rain keeps falling.
Elena would laugh if she could see me now. Obsessing over some girl I shouldn’t touch, throwing money at her problems like that’ll make up for what I’m soon going to do to her.
But Elena’s been dead for eighteen years.
And Rae Everett is very much alive.
One image is seared in my mind’s eye. Not the one of my son’s hands going where they don’t f*****g belong—that one has been burned up in the fire of my rage, and I hope never to think of it again.
No, the image I can’t get over is Rae on her knees in my office.
Skirt creeping higher. Blouse sagging lower. She clutched at both garments like she could find a way to arrange them that would save her.
But there
