Page 114 of The Lies We Tell

A week since I decided Rae Miller was going to be the insurance that her brother didn’t fuck up.

And in that week, I’ve realized she has a praise kink a mile wide.

But that isn’t going to save Saint.

I’m going to extract my pound of flesh.

I’m going to make him pay for every betrayal I’ve suffered.

And I’m going to do it through her.

“What was all that garden bullshit?” I ask.

Rae sits calmly. Of course, she’s some kind of psychologist. Or therapist. Or some kind of mind-fuck do-gooder. “Did I say anything untrue?”

I hate when she answers a question with a question. I tug my hand through my hair. “Don’t try and mess with my head. I’m the one who controls what’s happening here.”

“I understand. Why is that so important to you?”

“Why did you talk about fucking gardens?”

Rae looks towards the garden outside the cabin wistfully. The sun catches her face, making her brown hair glint red. “Because I miss mine. Because that one out there is crying out for some preparation before the worst of winter hits. Because soil on your hands and the feeling of a good day’s work mean something to me. Why does it bother you so much that I like them?”

Damn, if I don’t hear the sadness in her voice. Not that I fucking care. “I don’t give a shit one way or another. Stop the mind games. Go get back on that bed and show me how grateful you are I didn’t kill him. And make it good, so I don’t change my mind.”

As easily as if I’d asked her to go run me a bath or cook dinner, she rises from her seat and walks past me.

As if she’s better than me.

And I follow with the sole intent of making her realize she’s not.