Page 12 of Hate to Love You

I listened to other women talk about their pain, or about trying to avoid their abuser’s triggers, and realized I wasn’t the only one impossibly trying to navigate a room full of landmines. And I wasn’t the only one trying to convince myself that the man who tortured nearly every hour of my waking life, did so out of love.

It was then I realized it wasn’t love.

It was hell.

And so I unlocked my demons.

“…He locked me in the cupboard under the stairs for four days with… a bucket,” the woman with the lifeless eyes says, her voice carrying across the library.

Another lady gasps, her dark brown eyes widening as her pale hand covers her mouth. She’s also dressed well, the red sole on her heels visible as she sits with her legs crossed, a designer handbag at her feet.

All eyes turn to the speaker, as empathetic murmurs go up from around the circle.

It just gets worse, sweetheart.Every single time. Trust me.

Even with the sympathy written on their well-meaning faces, and the fact that this poor woman just admitted to being locked in a cupboard for four days, I still doubt any of them will actually reach out and try to help her.

But I will.

“Leah, you have to be careful… they could be listening!”

Immediately ‘Leah’s’ eyes dart around the room furiously, anxiously appraising the people surrounding her.

This is exactly why I like to hide in the shadows. Because if these women realized how closely I was listening to their conversation, they’d stop talking.

Leah turns back to her friend, her chest heaving.

“I just can’t live like this anymore Brittany! I can’t! He locked me in there because his wife came home early.”

Ahh, she’s a mistress then.

This was common enough, especially among the aristocracy in New York—everyone is fucking everybody, and commitment holds very little value.

Coincidentally my last kill had been another monster with a mistress.

John Bishop.

I remember the feeling I had seeing his name on the death certificate sat in front of me on my breakfast counter.

Years ago, I’d deliberately befriended a guy who worked for the county. One day, when he wasn’t looking, I’d managed to “borrow” his logins, so I could have a way to obtain the death certificates of my marks.

My little trophies.

In the case of John Bishop, a piece of paper stating that the trust fund baby died of an “overdose.”

Only I knew it wasn’t an overdose at all.

I was so happy, imagining the relief the woman would feel to be finally free of the prick.

But he still won though. She killed herself four weeks later.

That’s the cold truth: even when you’re finally free, you’re never fully free. The damage they do to your brain chemistry lasts a lifetime.

Even from the grave, Garrett still controls aspects of my life. He’s been dead for years, and I’ve healed, but every now and then he reappears in my mind…stalking my nightmares.

Tonight, I lurk quietly in my little spot, closing my eyes and simply listening. Sometimes, being silent gives you an edge that others don’t have. I hear everything, I see everything. Like a fucking god.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?”