Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 46

ELLA

I breathe a sigh of relief when I pull into Phillip’s driveway. The announcement of Dr. Bussman’s buyout of Dad’s practice and share of the building went better than expected, with Phillip graciously toasting her at the end of my speech. Despite his public acceptance of her, I know he’s still pissed, so I wasn’t looking forward to being alone with him in the car.

He didn’t even seem really concerned when I told him that Kristie fell ill and was resting at my house.

“Kristie will be back home tomorrow morning. Will you be here?” I want to make sure she discusses her addiction with him as soon as possible. Once I know he’s getting her the help she needs, I’m washing my hands of the whole situation. I can’t have her in my life.

Addiction took my sister from me. Addiction ripped Ry’s family from him. I refuse to let it ruin my life anymore. I refuse to let it ruin my husband. Our children. Our world.

“Yes, I should be home? Why?”

I nod once, not giving an answer.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

“It’s late, I should get going. Check on Kristie.”

His hand pauses on the door handle. “I have something of your father’s I want to give you.” He nods at the ignition, urging me to turn the car off. “It won’t take long.”

I’m not sure why I say yes, but I do. I guess I don’t want to be rude. I guess I want to soften the blow for the news I know he’ll get tomorrow about his daughter. I guess I want to thank him for not being a butthole at the gala.

Oh well, I always do what I shouldn’t. Tonight should be no different.

I’ve been in this house more times than I can count. It’s just as large as my parents’ house. Just as grand, just as glamorous. Phillip definitely had a different decorator, though. Mom wanted our house to be on the cover of every home décor magazine south of the Mason Dixon line. Phillip’s house, however, is the stereotypical bachelor pad of a man with too much money and too little self-esteem. The furniture is modern and uncomfortable, the floor is decorated in bear skin rugs, and the kitchen looks completely un-cooked in. In all honesty, it’s always given me the willies to be here. Even Kristie’s room always looked more like a hotel bedroom than the bedroom of a little girl. Maybe that’s part of the reason she always came to our house instead of us coming to hers.

Phillip stops at the wet bar in the living room and pours himself a drink. He makes an elaborate show of swirling the brown liquid around in the crystal tumbler. “Can I get you a drink?”

He knows I don’t drink. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

He reaches out and touches my left hand. My jaw tenses and my spine locks in place. I shift away from his touch, clasping my hands in front of me.

He takes a sip of his drink. “Sorry, I always forget that you don’t like to be touched.” He puts his glass down. It clinks loudly against the marble of the bar. “That always bothered your father, you know? Not being able to hug you and kiss you, like a normal child?”

That’s the thing, though. If my mother and father hugged and kissed me like a ‘normal child’, then I wouldn’t mind being touched.

My hugs came from my sister. From my aunt and uncle. Hell, even from my nanny.

He shrugs when I don’t answer, nodding at my hand. “I noticed the ring on your finger. It looks like a wedding ring.”

I swallow, trying to politely smile. Some habits die hard. “It is.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes.” Semantics, I think to myself.

“That garage kid? The one who’s a cop now?” Shaking his head, he picks up his drink and downs it. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. I wasn’t invited to a wedding. I assume it was an intimate event?”

I ignore his comment. “You said you had something to give me?”

He snaps his fingers like he just remembered. “Yes. I went to a medical conference back in May. They presented me with a posthumous award on your father’s behalf. I wanted to give it you. It’s just in the office.” He extends an arm down the hallway. “Shall we?”

“I’ll just wait here.”

Furrowing his brow, he shrugs again. “Suit yourself,” he says, as he wanders off down the darkened hall.

I glance around the living room, which doesn’t look lived in at all. No throw pillows tossed on the couch. No blankets draped over the chair. No dog-eared book sitting on the coffee table. Even the framed pictures on the fireplace mantel look fake. My eyes immediately dart to the picture of me, Carrie, and Kristie from a garden party.

I always hated that picture.

I was so mad at Carrie that day. I was in middle school and she was in high school. She was supposed to take me to the movies that night, but she met a boy at the party and decided to go on a date with him instead. I hated that picture because every time I saw it, it made me think about how angry I was at my sister that day. Carrie and I always got along so well that being mad at her felt wrong.

And it feels wrong now.

Growling, I turn the offensive picture around. I look at the other pictures. There’s one of Phillip and Kristie’s mom on their wedding day. One of Kristie at kindergarten graduation. One of my parents and Phillip at a black-tie charity event. And one of Phillip, my dad, and Carrie at a bicycle race. They’re dressed in their matching jerseys and tight shorts, posing next to their bikes, holding their medals high in the air.

It must have been one hell of a race. My father looks like he’s about to pass out. My sister has a scrape on her elbow. A small trickle of blood is running in a line, like red rainwater, down her arm. And Phillip’s bloodied shorts are torn, showcasing the majority of his left leg, like he’s some kind of deranged pantyhose model.

My hand drifts to the back of my neck and I rub my scar, thinking about my sister. She’s so beautiful. She really could’ve been a model. Strands of her blonde hair blow in the breeze. Her skin glistens with sweat from the race. Her brilliant smile makes my soul feel light and airy. I’m about to step away from the vivid memory when my eyes lock on something unexpected in the photograph.

Phillip.

More importantly, Phillip’s leg.

There, on his upper left thigh, is a cut. A bloody, yet unmistakable cut. A cut shaped like the letter J . A cut like that leaves a scar. A scar just like the one I’ve spent the past eight-and-a-half months staring at on a daily basis.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t think my heart is beating.

I think I’m dying.

Immediately, my palm flies to my chest. Rubbing my breastbone, I try to pump life back into my lifeless body.

All this time. It’s been right under my nose all this time. And I refused to see it.

My throat constricts. I try to gulp air into my lungs, but all I can manage are short, painful gasps. My vision blurs, forming a black tunnel. My ears start ringing, driving my swirling brain to the brink of psychosis.

Phillip’s voice cuts through the room. “Here you go. Something to add to the collection of your father’s lasting notoriety.”

Bastard. Fucking bastard. “It was you,” I whisper in disbelief.

“What?”

“It was you.”

“What was me?”

I spin around to face him, the devil incarnate. “It was you. You raped my sister.”

A flash of recognition burns across his face, but he quickly replaces it with shock and abhorrence. Placing my dead father’s acrylic plaque on the table, he folds his arms across his chest. “What are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?”

“You raped Carrie.”

“How can you say such a thing? Carrie was like a daughter to me. Just like you.”

Vomit coats the inside of my mouth. “There’s no point in denying it. There’s a photograph.”

His eyes widen, before narrowing in anger. He clenches his teeth and snarls, “Really? You have a picture? Of what?” He points to his chin. “Of my face?”

“I don’t need to see your face to know it’s you.”

“Look, Ella, I don’t know what you think you saw, but you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not!” I yell. “It’s you!” I grab the frame from the mantel and tap the glass. “This. It shows your cut. A cut that turns into a scar. Not too many people have a scar like this on their leg. Carrie is passed out, and you are raping her. On the couch. At Trey’s mobile home.”

“Who’s Trey?”

I have to give the asshole credit. He didn’t even flinch at the name.

“You know damn well who Trey was. Apparently, you were his supplier.”

“Supplier of what?”

“You tell me, Phillip. What drugs did you give him? How much money did he make you? Was the whole gas station operation your idea?”

Phillip takes a deep breath. Calmly, he walks back over to the bar and pours himself another two fingers. Fury courses through my veins, making me nauseous and dizzy. I quickly tire of his games and throw the race photograph at his head. He darts to the side and it shatters against the wall, sending glass scattering across the Italian marble floor.

Shaking his head, he chuckles. Cynically. Maniacally. “You know, Ella, you never used to cause problems like this when you were a little girl. You always did what you were told.” He walks over to a hutch in the corner, opens a drawer, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I remember once, when you had just started high school…” His voice trails off as he lights a cigarette and takes a drag.

I’ve never seen him smoke before.

He blows smoke in the air. “Well, anyway, you went to the gynecologist. Do you remember that?”

Of course, I remember it. It was traumatic. Mom said I needed to go because I was fourteen and hadn’t started my period yet. I was a young, teenage girl and completely overwhelmed and embarrassed to have a doctor look at me and touch me. It didn’t matter that the doctor was a woman. I was even more embarrassed when she confirmed for my mother that I was a virgin.

But my mother insisted I go. I listened to her. I obeyed her. Just like I always did.

Before Carrie went missing. Before I met Ry. Before I found my voice.

He laughs, “Of course, you remember that. I see it on your face. You know that doctor was having an affair with your father. That’s why your mother wanted to meet her. She wanted to size up her latest competition. And you, my dear, were the perfect excuse. Sweet little Ella always making her mommy and daddy happy. You let someone touch your pussy just because you couldn’t say no to that conniving bitch of a mother. Anything to try and gain her love, right?”

I wish I didn’t have to hear his words. My eyes burn with the salt of unshed tears. The muscles in my throat hurt from holding in my sobs. “At least my parents weren’t drug dealers.”

“You think you have it all figured out? That little sleuth business of yours paying off?”

“I know that the surgery you did on my sister’s knee turned her into an addict. I know she turned to Trey and Trash and that gas station for her fix. I know she started selling. She was selling your drugs, wasn’t she? What happened? Did she find out you were the supplier? Did she confront you about the rape?” I take a step forward, closing some of the distance between us. “What did you do to my sister?”

He tosses the cigarette on the floor and grinds it out with his foot. “She brought all this on herself!”

“What happened to Carrie, you asshole!”

In two seconds flat, he rushes me. I’m completely unprepared. I should’ve been more prepared. Hell, this is what I do for a living. I interview people all the time who have lived through situations like this. And what do I do? I freeze.

He flings me down on the stiff, white leather couch. His hand wraps around my throat, squeezing. Squeezing hard. I immediately panic when I can’t breathe. I claw at his hands, coughing and sputtering for air.

“I can’t believe that filthy little bitch made a copy of the picture. She showed up here with a memory card, said she didn’t make any copies. I guess that’s my fault for believing her.”

I buck against him, trying to knee him in the stomach or groin, but my position isn’t right. My vision grows foggy, clouding with small spots of green and purple. He leans down, pressing his lips against the rim of my ear. “She was pregnant. Did you know that? She knew it was me in the picture. Same as you, she saw the scar. She told me I had to get her clean, pay for her to go to rehab. I told her to go ask Robert and Susan for the money. You know what she said? She said they would cut her off when they found out she was pregnant. Said they would disown her. I told her I would give her the money for an abortion.”

He sits back a little bit, slightly loosening his grip. My greedy body hungers for the extra oxygen. I swallow as much air as I can.

His teeth grind. “She said no. She actually wanted to get clean and have the baby. Can you imagine that? What a stupid cunt. Did she actually think I was gonna let her have my kid? She would’ve ruined me. Completely ruined me. I’ve worked too hard; I’ve come too far.”

My whisper is barely audible. “What did you do?”

He doesn’t like that I’m talking. He grips me with renewed fervor. His eyes turn black as night. His face glows red like the coat of Satan. “I did what I had to do.”