Page 135 of Trailer Trash

And it kills me.

When? Why?

Evan is holding me all over again. Lying to my face. Causing pain while pretending everything is fine.

Killian’s brow furrows when he sees tears streaming down my face. He wipes them away. He even licks my neck. I don’t want to look in the mirror. I’m unsure how bad the cut is.

“Why are you crying?” he whispers, then licks blood off his bottom lip.

My mouth opens and closes several times, but all I can say is:

“Your dad.”

“Oh yeah. He caught us.”

Caught us.

“I uh, better go talk to him,” I mumble.

“Right. Don’t worry. If he’s mad, just tell me. I’ll talk to him. We should tell him about us moving in together, anyway. I’ll come with you.”

“No!” I say, far too loudly. Too sharp. I lower my voice. “I mean, I want to face him on my own.”

Killian studies me, skeptical. I step away slowly, trying to appear normal.

“Harlow, something’s wrong. I see it in your eyes.”

His words send ice through my veins.

“No,” I assure through a tight throat. “I’m just... shocked we, uh, us, moving in together.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t believe me — I can see that — but I slip away at just the right moment, calling out, “I’ll be right back.”

I walk through the mansion in a fog of violence and jumbled words. The hall is quiet and an old grandfather clock ticks in the distance. I’m outside of my body, floating near the ceiling, watching myself.

Soon, I find Clark in his home office and sit across from him. His large mahogany desk separates us. Bookshelves line the walls with old medical books. It’s oddly dusty and dark for what I’d imagine. I am barely able to look up as shock and humiliation weigh heavy on my shoulders.

I expect a shame-inducing expression across his face. Instead, he reclines lazily in his chair, looking at a paper.

“One hundred and sixty thousand dollars for a new Audi,” he starts.

I scrunch my forehead.

“Auto-pay vehicle insurance, three hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

I swallow hard and shift uncomfortably.

He points at the paper. “This one is good. He went to your school last week and paid your tuition.”

“He what?” I say, breathless.

“How long have you been sleeping with my son, Miss Anderson?”

I sit up, my spine as straight as a steel rod. “Dr. Easton! I’m sorry! I—”

Lying is not a natural thing for me, so I freeze, panicked.