“You’resoembarrassing,” he sneers, his tone dripping with contempt.
I clench my fists so hard my knuckles pop.
“Look at you, crashing the truck like an idiot. Everyone in this buildinghatesyou now.”
Her response is barely audible. She’s too drained to argue, but I can see it in her body language—she’s not okay.
I can’t fucking stand it.
I’ve watched her endure so much, but this… this feels like the tipping point.
She could have been killed tonight. Or worse.
And instead of compassion—instead of showing the woman he supposedly loves more than anything in the world a shred of care or support—Timmy uses the opportunity to make her feel shame and guilt.
To make himself seem superior to her.
She never would have got into the truck if it wasn’t for him—she wouldn’t have had a reason to. But time and time again, he poked and prodded at her, making her fear for her safety.
She’s barely eaten in weeks, is adjusting to new medication, dealing with Timmy’s grief and the fallout over Darren’s memorial—it’s too much for anyone.
My hand hovers over the keyboard, every muscle in my body coiled tight. I could end this right now. Call the cops on Timmy, have him arrested, make it so he can’t hurt her again.
But I know it’s not that simple. Margaux has to make the call to leave him.Shehas to want it, or nothing I do will stick.
Still, I can’t just sit here and watch her crumble.
Whatever it takes, I’ll keep her safe.
Even if she never knows I’m the one pulling the strings.
I switch feeds, tracking Timmy’s location. He’s at the tents again, probably drunk and high, leaving Margaux alone in the wreckage of their so-called life.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER 82
EAVESDROPPER
MARGAUX
The truck has been taken. Stolen, the keys left on the driver’s seat by the police officers who found it up against the fence with me inside.
And because the Cay has its own unique rhythm of chaos, Timmy eventually finds it abandoned on a random side road, as if whoever took it simply lost interest.
After roadside assistance makes us a new set of keys, Timmy surveys the truck’s interior. “The stereo gadget is gone,” Timmy announces, pointing at the conspicuously empty space where the Bluetooth adapter used to be.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I’ll get us another one. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says, unusually forgiving. “At least the brake pads are still here.” He gestures at the back seat, where the unopened boxes of brake pads I’d bought are still neatly stacked. “Good thing they didn’t take those.”
A few days pass.
“The brake pads must have been taken by that guy you let into the truck,” Timmy says out of nowhere, his tone accusing.
I blink, trying to keep my voice steady. “They were still there when we found the truck, Timmy. I remember you pointing them out.”