The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 42
ONE MONTH LATER
Scott Harden stood in the tall grass and watched Randall Thompson through the window. He sat at a table, his chair pulled close, his belly snug to the edge, and scooped forkfuls of pasta toward his face. His gaze was fixed and unmoving on the screen in his hand. The faint sounds of voices came through the window, a sitcom playing on the device.
In Scott’s hand was the knife. The same knife Brooke had given him that morning, when she had snuck him outside, their plan in motion the moment John’s car pulled out of the drive. “Just in case,” she had said, then pressed a kiss on his forehead. They hadn’t discussed what just in case covered, but killing Randall Thompson was as good a reason as any, one that would have made Brooke proud. One that, if John Abbott had really loved his wife, he would have taken care of himself.
But he hadn’t, and now this asshole was suing Scott, and his parents, and the police department, and was going to collect ten million dollars, according to their attorneys.
That wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. That wasn’t what Brooke had wanted. She was the one who’d risked everything and snuck into her rapist’s house, putting the box of souvenirs under his bed. She was the one who had planned out everything so that this sack of shit would finally get what he deserved. She was the one who had trusted her teacher and had her innocence stripped in return.
The science teacher had raped Brooke. Raped her without a condom, and when she’d missed her period, she’d had to tell her mother, who had still refused to believe it was him, but marched her down to the clinic and berated her during the entire termination process.
Brooke had told Scott how no one had believed her. The girls at school had called her a slut. Everyone had dismissed her claims, even her parents. She’d had to stay in Randall’s class, in a front-row seat, and feel the heat of his gaze on her for the entire semester.
He had done that to her, and to others, and never been forced to pay for his actions—not until now. Scott eased around the edge of the house and toward the back door. From inside, Randall laughed. Beside Scott, an air conditioner clattered to life.
Scott thought of Brooke, her soft hair falling in his face as her lips brushed his. He moved down the skinny side porch and reached for the doorknob.
“Scott.”
He jumped and turned, raising his fists in self-defense. Pausing, he peered into the dark yard. A small figure in a blue velour jumpsuit stepped closer, and his hands dropped. “Mom. What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“Give me that knife.” She climbed the steps onto the saggy wooden porch and jerked forward, snatching the knife from his hand before he had the chance to hold on to it. “We’re going home.”
“No.” He reached for it, and she stepped back, her expression stern and brokering no room for arguments. “You don’t know what he—”
“Tell me about it on the car ride home, and then we’ll find a solution—together. But going into a man’s home with a knife is only going to end badly, and I am NOT LOSING YOU AGAIN.” Her soft voice shook with emotion, and he couldn’t do this, couldn’t handle the tears that were welling in her eyes.
Tinny laughter came faintly through the windows, and he glanced back inside, where Randall continued to eat, oblivious of the conversation happening on his porch.
“Come on,” she ordered, gripping his forearm and pulling it with the strength of a woman twice her size. “Let’s get in the car and you can tell me all about it.”
He didn’t want to tell her all about it. He wanted Brooke, and he wanted the life they had planned, and he couldn’t take another minute of the horrible things his mom was constantly saying about her. She hated Brooke, and she didn’t even know her. Didn’t understand that Brooke had been protecting him, caring for him. That Brooke loved him.
Whenever he tried to explain it, his mom just looked at him as if he were crazy.
She pulled on his arm and he resisted, glancing back at the window, where Randall Thompson was twisting the cap off a fresh beer. For one final moment, he considered ripping away and kicking down the door. Wrapping his hands around that thick old neck. Squeezing until his face turned purple and spit bubbled between his lips.
He considered it, savored it, then he followed his mother toward their vehicles.