Page 66 of Promise of Punishment

She wouldn’t have left her mum, but I didn’t know that back then. If I had, I might have found a way to get them both to go with me. Fable was young, as was I, but mature beyond her years. I was an arrogant prick who thought I was untouchable until my father taught me the toughest lesson of all. Never believe you’ve seen the worst of someone. A person can always sink lower.

Socrates argued that parents deserve immense gratitude for giving their children existence and enduring the sacrifices of rearing them. My father would agree wholeheartedly, believing we owe him everything for the mere gift of his sperm and name, even though he had zero part in raising us. This is why I’ve never committed to a woman. That could lead to emotions, which could lead to marriage and children. Three things I want nothing to do with. I’d be terrible at each.

My phone dings with a text.

Camila: She’s resting and drinking plenty of fluids, per the doctor’s instructions. Noah keeps checking on her and says Fable is hanging in there.

That girl needs a raise.

Camila: What about you? How do you feel?

Me: What about my offer? Still no?

I wanted to put Fable in a private facility in the city where the wealthy often recover from illness or the aftermath of heavy partying, but Camila said Fable wanted to stay in her room with her cat. If she'd been nearby, I could've spied on her and eased my worry. I had to stop myself three times from forcing her into the facility.

Camila: Still no. Leave her be. From what Noah says, Fable is used to taking care of herself.

And I fucking hate that she’s had to.

25

JUST YOUR AVERAGE CREEP

Fable

I stop at a gas station to refuel after driving all day and into the evening. The sun set a couple of hours ago, and rain drizzles on the windshield, stirring dread in me the way it always does. In my exhausted state, it’s not enough to boost my energy, unfortunately.

Last night was rough. After leaving the mansion, I drove two hours into Pennsylvania and pulled into a nasty motel, unable to go any farther without risking passing out behind the wheel. The itchy sheets, smell of BO, and noisy TV in the next room made sleeping impossible. I left before sunrise, headed toward my destination, Kalamazoo, Michigan—because who’d guess I’d go there?

Now my body is running on empty again. If I don’t get some caffeine in me, I won’t make it to the hotel I booked outside of Perrysburg.

I take the next exit and pull into a gas station just off a long stretch of road surrounded by trees and darkness. Four out of the five pumps are vacant. A lone trucker fills the tank of a trailerless semi under flickering lights.

I park in the front spot and am about to climb out when a massive RAM pickup pulls in beside me, dwarfing my car even though two other spots sit empty. The driver doesn’t get out, and the windows are too dark for me to see who’s inside. I glance at the man pumping gas, but he’s already pulling away. My gut twitches, but I don’t know the cause. The truck next to my car, the heavier rain, sheer exhaustion? Too many things have me on edge.

I race into the small store. Burnt coffee and stale hot dogs hang in the air. The forty-something cashier doesn’t look up, glued to his phone as I pass by.

The man from the truck, I assume, strolls in behind me. Older, rough, like a Sons of Anarchy extra, with a gut that could hide a pumpkin. He scans the store with an impassive expression.

I move to the coffee station, aware of him drifting through the aisles as if browsing. Once, I glance up and catch him watching me. He quickly looks away. I try not to read into it. Only two people could be looking for me—my dad or whoever he’s using to leave his notes, and Wes. Wes wouldn’t associate with someone like this, and my dad couldn’t possibly know where I am. Even if he’d tracked me to the mansion, he wouldn’t know I left. I don’t think.

Maybe he’s just your average creep. I hurry with my coffee, adding cream, sugar, and a lid. The cashier barely glances up as he rings me out. I feel the man behind me and tense, eager to get to my car.

“Have a good night,” the cashier says automatically.

“Thanks.” I take my coffee and leave, pushing through the door into the chilly night air.

I don’t look around the lot or at the truck or behind me. I get in my car, lock the doors, and pull away.

The slick road swallows me with darkness as I follow my GPS, praying I outrun the rain. I hate driving in it at night. It’s already hard to see through the windshield, even with the rapid sweeps of the wipers. My nerves do more to jolt me awake than the stale-tasting coffee, even though I slammed it. I put the empty cup in the holder and grip the wheel tightly with both hands.

My headlights carve out a small, unreliable tunnel, and the rain doesn’t let up. Unease climbs up my shoulders, turning them into boulders.

The GPS loses internet service, sending a fresh wave of fear through me. I don’t know where to turn or how to get back to the highway. After twenty minutes of rain and only my headlights to guide me, I consider going back the way I came.

Headlights appear in my rearview mirror. Another car. That’s a good sign, right? Civilization must be around somewhere.

I exhale, but it does nothing to settle my nerves.