Page 42 of Tear Me Apart

“When did you start cutting?”

“A few years ago.” She shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

“I tried it once. It freaked me out.”

“It makes me feel good. Dr. Freakazoid says I’m looking for an unhealthy release for my psychic pain, but really, it just feels good.”

“I have a tattoo. I liked how that felt. The needle going in and out—it hurt, but there was something good in the pain, too.”

“Serotonin rush. It’s addictive. Let me see.”

I slide down the shoulder of my shirt. The tattoo is small, a butterfly, on my shoulder blade. It is yellow with blue spots. I dig it.

“I had to use a fake ID, and the tattoo guy didn’t buy it for a second, but he was an anarchist and loved the idea of sticking it to the man, so he did it anyway, for half price.”

“It’s very pretty. Maybe I’ll get one. See how it feels.”

I pull up my shirt. “I have my belly button pierced, too. Obviously, my nose, too. They won’t let me have my jewelry, think I’m going to use it to stab out my eyes or something.”

She touches the hole in my stomach. Her fingers are soft, her nails chewed down, and it feels good. Strange, but good. I realize no one has voluntarily touched me without anger in months.

I yank down my shirt. “You said you killed someone.”

Her face shutters. She shifts on the blanket, staring over my shoulder now, at nothing. “I did.”

“Liesel, tell me. You’ll feel better. I swear I’ll never say a word.”

With a deep, racking sigh, a girl old beyond her years, she begins to speak.

“I told the police what I’m telling you.”

“Which means it’s the truth, or it’s the story your lawyer told you to stick to?”

“Is there a difference?”

* * *

She tells me everything. In detail. Enough that my stomach turns and I look at her in a new light. She has been through hell, my roommate. More hell than me, that’s for sure. She almost makes me feel like my depression isn’t important. That I’m being selfish by not being happy.

“So that’s how I ended up here. That’s how I ended up with this miserable life. Do you feel sorry for me?”

I know I am looking at her with a combination of horror and sympathy on my face. I shut my eyes briefly, take a breath.

“No. You did what you had to do. I’m sorry you’re being punished, but I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“What about now?”

She takes my hand and puts it on her stomach. The uniform sweats they provided the night she was brought in have hidden the pregnancy so well.

22

THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE

CURRENT DAY

Shaken by her confrontation with Juliet, Lauren pulls into the cobbled driveway of their house, seeing it with fresh eyes. It looks deserted. Not like they have been on vacation, but that they have decamped without warning. The rose trellis by the garage has cracked, a large, packed snowbank leans against the house where Jasper hasn’t bothered to shovel it away. Their windows are grimy, the curtains pulled. There is snow on the balconies, piled up high. Lauren cringes to think what the stone beneath is experiencing; they’ll have to regrout the entire lower level come spring. A mountain house needs regular upkeep, lots of tender loving care, and they have fallen down on the job.

The house is too big for them, but cozy, nonetheless. They bought it thirteen years ago, the second they realized Mindy was going to be tethered to the ski slopes and had come to the attention of the Vail Ski Club, one of the best paths to becoming a world champion skier in the country. Designed to look like a European ski lodge, with vaulted wood ceilings and balconies, it was overpriced then, but the views are incredible, and from the moment Lauren entered the living space, all she wanted to do was grab a brush and paint the scape in front of her. That feeling has never changed. The second floor is almost all windows; they can see three separate mountain peaks, plus have a clear view of Vail’s back bowl ski runs.