My next move is calculated. I make sure my messages to Timmy don’t escalate too quickly.
Instead, they shift focus—keeping his attention on the anonymous ‘threat’ haunting him.
Anonymous:
How’s the kid doing, Timmy? Still pretending they don’t exist?
Remember that night in Missoula? You should.
Karma’s coming for you.
Each message is a scalpel, cutting away at his fragile sense of control. The goal isn’t just to distract him—it’s to make himdoubt himself, to question every shadow, every glance, every interaction.
If he’s busy looking over his shoulder, he’ll have less time and energy to target Margaux.
But I know Timmy isn’t smart. He’s not clever enough to fully grasp the implications of these messages.
And that’s where the danger lies. When cornered, he reacts with blind aggression, like a wild animal.
I have to be ready for that.
I have to anticipate his moves and counter them before he can hurt her. Before he can use her as a punching bag by proxy.
I can’t let my anger cloud my judgment. This isn’t about revenge—it’s about Margaux.
Keeping her safe.
Giving her the space and clarity to see Timmy for what he really is.
I sit back and take a deep breath.
This is a game of strategy, and I’m in it for the long haul.
Timmy doesn’t know it yet, but his days of hurting Margaux are numbered.
One way or another, I’ll make sure of it.
CHAPTER 14
BUTTHOLE EYES & BAD DRIVERS
MARGAUX
Another couple of hours later, Timmy approaches me and looks deep into my eyes.
At first, I think he’s going to say something nice, but then I see the cruel glimmer in his gaze.
“You are butthole eyes,” he says, smirking.
I frown. “That’s not very nice.”
But I leave it at that. Because I have barely any energy, and I really don’t know how to respond.
ABOUT FORTY MINUTES LATER
He throws a marble at my crotch for seemingly no reason, laughing like a child with a cruel streak.
“Stop throwing things at me,” I say, my patience fraying.