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Suddenly, I didn’t care about his opinion on drugs. I could not survive this week or weeks with him in this house. Without drugs. I tipped my bag out over the bed. Where the fuck were my pills?

“What are you doing?”

Of course, he would follow me.

Opening my suitcase, I froze when I saw it was basically empty. No. Surely not. I opened the duffle bag. She took my stuff. Again. My crying became uncontrollable. Instantly, I felt defeated. Broken. Weak.

Holding my face, I sat down on the bed. The tears burning the cuts on my hands.

“My love, talk to me.” he brushed my hair back. I could feel him kneeling in front of me.

There was no point in us talking. I was too upset to be rational.

“I’m tired.” So very tired of everything. The constant fight. The constant fear. The never-ending grief and guilt eating at me “I’m just really fucking tired.”

I barely remember him cleaning the stuff off the bed or helping me into bed. But I was grateful he let me sleep on my own.

CHAPTER 35

Vince

All night she cried. All night. Until she eventually passed out. I forced myself to stay out here. I’d never felt so fucking helpless. And I hated it.

I lit another cigarette. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I wasn’t sure if she was still asleep or if she was hiding in the bedroom from me. I’d let her hide from me, if it meant she wasn’t crying.

Tossing the empty cigarette packet to the side, I looked up when I saw movement.

I’d never seen her like this. So fragile. So broken. That same helpless feeling rushed through me.

“Do you mind if I um borrow this shirt?” she rocked back and forth on her feet, staring at me.

She looked genuinely concerned that she would be in trouble for wearing it. For years, she wore my tops like they were her own.

I nodded.

“Thanks.” She walked around the back of the couch. I noticed that last night too. This new habit she had of keeping furniture between us.

I took the cigarette from my mouth. “What happened to your arm?” I watched her at the kitchen island. Her back to me. But I could tell from here she was tense.

“An accident.”

“Right. What happened?”

I couldn’t think of one reason why Madeline would have a burn that size on her arm, or how it could be considered an accident. She hated cooking. She hated fires.

She shrugged, pretending to fake interest in the food buffet.

I got up. Walking towards her. If she was going to fake interest in that food, I was going to make sure she ate it. “So, why didn’t your dad attend the wedding?”

I had never thought her father could hurt her. Each minute I spent with her, it was painfully fucking obvious he had punished her for what I had done to him. Which only made me want to take his other fucking hand.

“Oh. He died.” She picked up a bread roll, looking at me.

Had I heard her wrong? “What?”

“He died. six weeks ago.” She repeated. The lack of emotion really concerned me.

“How?”