Page 165
It’s how easy it was for them to make my own father doubt me.
And I’m terrified that, because of my mother’s sins, he’ll never look at me the same way again.
Just as Dad requested, Chief Neptune and Deputy Cyr show up at our house that same afternoon.
I hate that I have to tell my side of the story to Amber’s brother, of all people. Still, I’m not particularly surprised he was Neptune’s first choice. Of course, neither man seems especially convinced by anything I say.
I tell them Mr. Collins only came by that morning to deliver me the news about the writing contest. I show them the certificate and the two-thousand-dollar check. I explain the photograph, the hug, and everything that happened before and after it was taken.
None of it seems to matter. When they look at me, I know exactly what they see.
My mother was a whore. Is it really such a stretch for everyone to believe her daughter grew up to be a home-wrecking slut too?
The thought burrows into my head and stays there long after they leave.
This is who I am now. It doesn’t matter what actually happened. It doesn’t matter that I never kissed Mr. Collins, never touched him inappropriately, or even thought about him that way. By tomorrow, none of that will matter because the truth has never been particularly important to the people of Fairhope.
I’ll be the girl who slept with her teacher.
Just like I’m already the girl whose mother fucked half the town for a fix.
Like mother, like daughter.
Yep. I’ve heard that one before. It’s practically my fucking scarlet letter.
And now Peyton has found a whole new way to make sure I never forget it.
Extra Credit.
That’s what she called me this morning.
‘See you around, Extra Credit.’
At the time, I hadn’t understood what she was getting at. But after seeing that photograph, sitting through that humiliating meeting with Principal Hargrove, watching my own father question everything he thought he knew about me, and then having to endure the added humiliation of being questioned by the police about my sex life, I understand perfectly.
Peyton knew exactly what my day was going to look like before I even got up that morning. She orchestrated the whole fucking thing like she was Christopher Nolan directing the blockbuster about my downfall. Every last bit of this setup has her fingerprints all over it, even if I can’t prove a damn thing.
That’s what’s killing me. I know who did this. I know Peyton is behind it. But knowing something and proving it are two very different things. And Peyton has made damn sure I’m the only one who looks guilty in this whole clusterfuck of a situation.
She’s managed to poison every area of my life.
All without having to lift a finger in public.
And the worst part?
She’s probably sitting somewhere right now, laughing her fucking ass off.
Because she knows there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get.
Peyton. It’s always fucking Peyton.
A bitter laugh escapes me as I bury my face in my pillow, my tears soaking into the fabric.
She didn’t just want to hurt me. She wanted to eviscerate me.
All because of what? Because Peyton can’t stand the fact that I spend time with Milo? Because she hates that we’re friends?
