Page 167 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

Maybe I already am a traitor. Maybe I became one the moment I let myself care about her.

I make my choice.

I turn. Start walking toward the side exit. If I time it right, I can intercept them while they’re loading her into the car. Maybe explain, maybe fix this, maybe—

Vincent’s voice cracks through the chaos like thunder.

“Koa!”

I keep walking.

“Koa!”

He’s pleading now, actually pleading for my help. But that’s the thing about monsters—they’ll carve pieces out of you, hollow you out until you’re nothing but edges and survival instincts, and then they’ll expect you to save them when their own darkness comes calling. They’ll make you suffer a thousand small deaths and still demand your loyalty, as if trauma creates obligation instead of scars.

The sound of his voice mixes with the wet crack of bones breaking, Gilbert’s rage finally finding its release after years of being buried.

I push the door open and step into the night. The cold air hits my face like absolution, like judgment.

I’m not letting Lexi get away. Not until I can explain. Not until I can make her understand that this was the only way to keep her alive.

Behind me, my stepfather screams—a sound of pure rage and disbelief that someone he made would abandon him.

And I don’t look back.

I never look back.

37

Lexi

Everything feels slow.

Like I’m swimming through syrup, my limbs made of lead, my thoughts sticky and disconnected.

My head’s pounding—a bass drum behind my eyes that won’t stop. My mouth tastes like metal and chemicals, bitter on my tongue. The air smells wrong. Smoke? Cordite? Something sharp and acrid that makes my nose burn.

Something pops, sharp and deafening. Once. Twice. Then again in rapid succession.

Gunshots.

My ears ring, the sound echoing inside my skull like I’m trapped in a bell tower. Everything’s muffled, distant, like I’m underwater.

My head jerks up—too fast, way too fast—and the world spins sideways. Nausea rolls through me in waves.

Axel’s next to me, slumped in a chair, his head lolling to one side. His eyes are half-open, pupils huge and black, swallowing the color. His lips move but no sound comes out, or maybe there is sound and I just can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears.

He looks high.

We’rehigh.

The realization hits me with delayed horror, like my brain is processing information through molasses. Someone drugged us. That needle. Vincent’s grin. The way the world went soft and sideways.

Another gunshot cracks through the space, so close I feel it vibrate in my chest. Then shouting—rough voices, clipped and urgent, too fast to understand. Footsteps thunder past. The wet thud of bodies hitting concrete, impacts that sound heavy and final.

My wrists ache, a burning sensation cutting through the fog.

I look down. Ropes. Tied so tight the skin is red and raw.