Page 56

CHAPTER 56

A THOUSAND CUTS

DEX

M argaux sits on the couch, curled up with Sabre, staring at her phone like it holds the answers to every question she’s too afraid to ask.

From the camera in the corner of the room, I can see her lips pressed into a thin line, her thumb swiping too fast for her to actually be doing anything. She’s spiraling. And it’s all because of him.

Timmy has locked himself in the back room once again, probably nursing his bruised ego, or coming up with another excuse for his latest stunt. My jaw clenches at the memory of Margaux’s frantic messages to Alice earlier in the week.

He threatened me with a chainsaw. Called the cops. They said it’s ‘not normal.’

As if Alice didn’t know.

As if Margaux didn’t know.

Not normal. That’s one way to put it.

I replay the footage of him pacing the hall with the chainsaw in hand, muttering nonsense under his breath, before tossing it aside. It’s as if he’s reenacting a scene from one of the slasher horrors he’s so obsessed with—who the fuck threatens their partner with a fucking chainsaw? Horrific.

My hands ball into fists at the sight of Margaux curled on the bed, trying to make herself smaller. It’s a miracle she hasn’t shattered yet.

But she’s close. Too close.

Through the feed from Timmy’s laptop, I see him scrolling through Instagram. His fingers hover over the search bar before he types in a name I’ve seen before—Desperella’s actual name. My jaw tightens. He’s still keeping tabs on her. Pathetic.

And as for Thirstina Aguilera? Her profile picture is literally an attention-seeking bikini picture where she has her thighs splayed apart, as if she’s actively inviting followers into her cervix. Gross.

I don’t wait. With a few keystrokes, I redirect his connection to a fake login page I’ve set up. He tries to click on Budget Barbie’s profile, but all he gets is an error message. Good luck stalking, loser.

Next, I plant a few choice files on his laptop. Nothing too obvious—just enough to catch Margaux’s eye if she decides to snoop. Old photos with half-finished messages he never sent, and one particularly damning screenshot of a dating app profile he never deleted.

She needs to see the cracks.

She needs to understand he’s not worth saving.

It’s not like I’m making these things up from scratch—he created the content in the first place. Restoring his recently deleted messages and photos—and there are plenty, because he’s a serial deleter—is evidence enough that he’s not treating her right.

From her phone’s camera, I watch as Margaux glances toward the back room. Her hand tightens on Sabre, and for a moment, she looks like she’s about to scream. Instead, she unlocks her phone and starts typing.

Her texts to Alice appear on my screen in real time:

Me:

He’s locked himself in the back room again. Probably sulking. I’m so sick of this.

Alice:

What happened this time?

Me:

Same old shit. Lies, gaslighting, throwing tantrums.

He told me earlier he’s ‘too scared’ to come out because ‘I might hurt him’.

Alice:

He said YOU might hurt HIM? The audacity.

Margaux’s lips twist into a bitter smile as she reads Alice’s reply.

She types back quickly:

Me:

I know, right? The irony is so thick I could cut it with that stupid chainsaw.

Her phone buzzes with an incoming message from Timmy:

Timmy:

Can you bring me some ibuprofen? My head’s killing me.

She glares at the screen. I watch as her fingers hover over the keyboard before she locks the phone and tosses it onto the couch. Good. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

A few minutes later, the door to the back room creaks open, and Timmy steps out, scratching his head like he’s just woken up. “What’s for dinner?” he asks, as if the past few hours of silence weren’t his doing.

Margaux doesn’t look at him. “Figure it out yourself.”

He snorts. “What’s your problem now?”

From the laptop feed, I see her jaw tighten. “ You’re my problem, Timmy.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off-guard. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m tired of this. Of you . Of everything .”

His face twists into a sneer. “Oh, you’re tired? That’s rich, coming from someone who spends all day sitting on her ass.”

I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to scream at the screen. If I were there, I’d knock that smug look right off his face.

Margaux stands, her voice steady but icy. “You’re unbelievable. Get out of my face, Timmy.”

Once Timmy retreats, I get to work. I log into his phone and adjust his Find My iPhone settings to show him spending hours at sketchy spots around town—the meth tents, the abandoned parking lot nearby, even the strip club down the road.

Margaux’s been watching his location obsessively, trying to make sense of his chaos. This will give her plenty to think about.

I plant more breadcrumbs on his devices: fake messages from fake contacts, notifications from accounts he doesn’t even have. Margaux needs to see it all—the lies, the deception, the sheer stupidity.

Every seed of doubt I plant is another crack in the foundation of their relationship. And when it finally collapses, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

Later that night, Timmy passes out on the bed, leaving Margaux alone with her thoughts. She stares at the TV, but her eyes are unfocused. From the corner camera, I can see the exhaustion etched into her face, the weight of everything crushing her.

I type a message to her laptop:

Anonymous:

You don’t deserve this. You know that, right?

She freezes, her eyes darting to the screen. For a moment, she looks around the room, as if expecting to find someone there. Then, slowly, she types back:

Margaux:

Who is this?

I hesitate for a moment before responding:

Me:

Someone who cares.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling. She doesn’t reply.

But she doesn’t close the laptop, either.

It’s a start.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that spark alive, even if it means dismantling Timmy’s entire world from the shadows.