Page 188 of Under Your Scars

Christian doesn’t feel guilt. Not when it comes to murder. It’s as mindless as brushing his teeth.

I don’t want to be a killer.

But I’ve been one from the moment I met Christian.

When he killed those three men in the alley and I didn’t report it out of fear, I became just as much of a killer as he is.

Finally, I concede. Christian leaves me alone in our room, and I stay standing in the same spot for over an hour. I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s past five AM. The sun will be up soon.

The only thing I want right now is my mom.

I find her in her guest room, alone, sipping coffee and sitting up in bed. When she meets my gaze, she sets down the mug.

Her gentle thumb traces across the cut on my cheek. I flinch away from her touch slightly, and I can see the exact moment her heart breaks from the reaction.

“You didn’t tell me dad was dying.”

“You didn’t tell me you married a serial killer.”

My head snaps to her and I stare at her with wide eyes. My mom lets out a sad laugh and shrugs. “We keep secrets to protect the people we love.”

I look away with a guilty stiffness in my posture. “How did you find out?”

“He came looking for you and found Caroline under the cabinets. She wouldn’t come to him until she saw his face.”

“You don’t seem bothered,” I point out quietly.

“Christian and your father are so alike that it’s scary sometimes.”

I scoff. “Are you trying to say dad’s a serial killer?”

She shakes her head. “No. But all the things he’s done in his life have led him—ledyou—to this point. You know I believe everything happens for a reason. I think we’re all exactly where we belong, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.”

I rest my head on her shoulder, and we’re quiet for a few minutes. My mom begins running her fingers through my hair and lightly scraping my scalp.

“Are you okay, Ellie?”

“I don’t know how to feel okay anymore,” I whimper.

“It’s okay to not be okay, Elena.”

“It’s easier to pretend I am, though.”

“Easier for everyone but you.”

Her voice is soft like a concerned mother’s should be. It’s both a blessing and a curse that she’s so good at reading people. I’ve never been able to hide anything from her.

I’ve never had to. Not until I met Christian.

“I think that’s the harsh reality of being a woman,” my mother continues, “we’re always so focused on everyone else, that we forget we need to take care of ourselves, too.”

I take a deep breath, soaking in the truth of her words. The sun has come up, and the pretty yellow sunrise trickles past the curtains, casting the room in a warm glow.

I haven’t gotten much sleep in the past two days, and as a result, I’ve got a massive headache.

“Do you have any aspirin in here?” I ask.

My mother nods towards the bathroom. “In my makeup bag on the counter.” She throws the covers off her and stands. “I’ll go get you some water.”