Page 70 of Chalk Outline

Would he…?

“What’s on your mind? I can hear your gears turning,” he questions, filling his lungs with more smoke.

“That thing will kill you.”

“Is that your subtle way of telling me to quit?”

“I think you’re lying again.” My bones are numb yet aching. I’m exhausted from the secrets and lies. “Do you have a twin?”

“W-what, no.”

“Did you kill my husband?”

Our eyes are locked on like magnets, the force far too strong to ignore.

“Not this again.”

“Did you or did you not?” I say, grinding my teeth.

“I can play the villain in your story if that’s what you want. It won’t make a difference. So…” Jason’s tone becomes icy and rough as he flicks the cigarette off the balcony. He grabs the zipline harness from the floor with sharp movements, pushing his legs inside one by one. “Make me your villain.”

Chapter twelve

Reeve Hardy

The Same Deep Water As You — The Cure

I gaze at the golden moth picture on the wall, which I have been looking at since I was little. The moth resembles the golden one on my T-shirt and the sticker on Mom’s guitar.

“Reeve, go play outside. Dick is supposed to visit me.” Mom shoos me out of the trailer like I’m a six-year-old who plays in the sand outside, but I know it’s a code for “get out of here, I’m about to let a predator in for sex.”

I set my comic book aside—I was too distracted to read it anyway—and grab the matchbox from the nightstand before swinging my legs off the bed.

I barely glance at Mom; irritation contorts my features. I walk past her and stop when she grabs my wrist.

“I love you,” she says, kissing my shoulder. “I’ll buy you the new shoes you wanted with the money he promised to bring me tonight.”

She always says that, but she ends up wasting it on other things.

Nodding, I slip out of her loosened grip and step out the door. Dick slots inside with a sadistic grin that makes my skin crawl, grazing his body with mine because he can’t wait like a normal person.

I know this sick game she’s playing with him is her way of taking care of me, so I bury this cavernous rage for him deeper and walk to the edge of the circus, where a scuffed-up picnic table meets a circle of trees. It’s deserted because a sharp nail sticks out and pokes everyone who sits on it, so no one bothers to come here anymore. It cut me once. Even when I was bleeding heavily, Mom refused to take me to the hospital. Instead, she made Dick patch me up and stitch the wound. That’s why I have this ugly scar on my palm.

I step onto the wooden seat, rest my legs on it, and drop myself onto the tabletop. The contents inside the matchbox rustle as I open it and strike a match.

The flame dances with the salty afternoon breeze. The sun flickers in and out teasingly, playing hide and seek among the gray skies. Sometimes, I want to burn this whole place down and disappear, leaving no trace. It’s not like anyone would notice. Every time these thoughts cross my mind, Mom’s helpless expression resurfaces. I know she cares for me, and I feel the same toward her. Still, we fall into this endless abyss, and I don’t see a way out with her.

I wish my life were different.

I wonder what I could do right at this moment if I were a normal kid living an everyday life. What decisions would I make? What kind of friends would I have? What could my lifelook like? I feel like there’s a version of me out there—a better one that I will never get to be. And when I try to focus on it, it slips further away.

A shadow stretches over the grass as a figure approaches slowly. I swallow my frustration and smother the flame with my bare hand. I refuse to look at him, fully aware it’s my father. I sense his unapologetic presence, effortless strides, and the confident stance he displays so well through his shadow alone. My father has no sense of responsibility—ever. He doesn’t dwell on the past and never shows a sign of weakness.

“Hey, son, how are you?” a familiar voice drifts, low and resonant.

“Like you care.” I glare at his dark Oxford shoes, which look too fancy for this zoo. I never understood how he could buy such things when he barely had enough money to give us during his visits.

He probably steals them.