Timmy’s dad, Phil, sighs heavily. “Well, I don’t necessarily agree with all that,” he says. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
If both of us are still alive by then,I think grimly.
I shudder, the instinctive fear in my body moving faster than my mind can process. Somewhere deep inside, I know my mortality—and Sabre’s—is in real danger. But this idiot on the other end of the line can’t—or won’t—see it.
We hang up. I’m seething, and I need a drink to calm my shattered nerves.
With a friend on speakerphone to make me feel safer about navigating a path full of tweakers, I walk to the convenience store up the street. On the other side of the street, I see Timmy standing with his arm propped up against the entrance to a large tent, holding court with some of his meth friends. One of the few white male surfer-looking guys in the entire neighborhood. It’s most definitely him.
I don’t acknowledge him or any of the people he’s with. I just keep walking, and return home with a bottle of wine and some vodka.
I call Phil, beyond annoyed.
“He’s at the meth tents,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “I just saw him there.”
“No he’s not,” Phil scoffs, as if I’m a delusional idiot—projection, I guess. “He’s at the beachnearthe tents. He’s notatthe tents.”
I nearly drop the phone. “I was standing here—looking at him—and you’re several states away.” I roll my eyes. “But sure, Phil. Go ahead and tell me what I’m seeing.”
“Well, he’s not at the tents,” he says dismissively.
Okay, moron. I can physically see your son and you’re in a whole other city, but believe what you want.
Fucking idiot.
Blood rushes to my temples. “Your sontold mehe lies to you. He admits it. And youfall for it every fucking time.”
“There’s no need to swear,” Phil says, his tone scolding. Why don’t you just leave?” he asks.
Blood hammers in my temples. I’m literally repeating what his son said, and his dad is acting like I’m making it all up.
“Because he’s done things like pour water all over my laptop. And threatened to kill my cat.”
“Margaux, you really need to stop dredging up the past,” Phil says. I want to leap through the phone and kill this man. I would enjoy every second of it. What a fucking dimwit.
“Phil,” I say, my voice dangerously low, “if you could get your head out of your ass for two seconds, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
CHAPTER 131
(IF I’M ALIVE TO) SEE YOU NEXT TUESDAY
MARGAUX
I’m texting my friend Sheryl, a fellow Kiwi with a heart of gold and a voice that could make angels jealous. She came to the States on a singing scholarship, and we bonded instantly over our shared homeland and mutual tendency to find humor in the chaos of life.
I tell her about life in Sunset Cay and update her on my breakup with Timmy. I vent about the exhausting tension in the apartment,and my hope that we can ride out the next five days peacefully as he packs and leaves.
But that hope? Utterly misplaced.
Timmy has been muttering and glaring from the back room all morning, darting out and slamming back in like some demented jack-in-the-box. His energy is suffocating, his presence a storm cloud blotting out any light or peace.
I feel his eyes on me long before I see him. He emerges from the back room, his movements deliberate and cold, and strides toward me.
“Give me your phone,” he snaps, reaching for it. “Whohave you been messaging with all morning?”
I tighten my grip, my pulse quickening. For the first time in a long time, I feel a jolt of real fear. He’s not just trying to take my phone—he’s trying to sever my lifeline—my connection to the outside world, to safety, to anyone who could intervene.
“I’ve seen you chatting with someone for the past thirty minutes,” he accuses, his voice low and venomous.