The Wicked Trilogy by S. Massery
Caleb
It’s done.
I expected a weight to lift off my shoulders, like it did every other time I did this. When I went in and systematically destroyed Margo’s world.
The first time, we were twelve, and I took a taxi. I approached her foster mother with a rather twisted view of the truth, then hung around for the fireworks.
I paid the guy to sit there. We waited for Margo to come home from school, only to meet the social worker. Hell, the foster mom had been so disgusted, she didn’t even want to be there.
Margo didn’t cry.
That was disappointing.
She didn’t cry the next time, either.
Each time she carted out her garbage bag full of clothes, she kept her shoulders back. Her chin up. I once sat in Eli’s truck a house down from the foster’s and tried to suck an ounce of gratification out of it.
It became a game. How far can I push until she breaks?
Ruin her in one way, and she might recover. Ruin her every way, and she’ll be dust. Mind, body, and soul.
I began hanging around longer to see if she would lose control. Not close enough for her to see me—I’m not a idiot. I only got to her once, when she was torn away from siblings. Once in seven fucking years.
It felt good to see her cry, but odd, like something cracked inside my chest. Her breaking was breaking me, too. I had let her stay at that home for a while. Two whole years of idyllic bliss while I tried to forget about Margo. Slept with her old friends, immersed myself in lacrosse. But I couldn’t shake her. Senior year was approaching, and it was time for Margo to return home.
The Jenkinses were perfect. It isn’t their fault I had that card up my sleeve. As I told the Jenkinses: they were a common subject of my aunt and her social circle right after the accident. They went to church and prayed for their family, but then they’d come back to my aunt’s house and gossip like schoolgirls about where the drugs could’ve come from.
Was it true? Did Amberly kill their daughter?
Maybe.
Hell if I know.
This isn’t about them—this is about Margo and her resilience.
Will she end up on the street? I doubt it. The Jenkinses are too kindhearted for that. They’d probably forgive her after a few awkward days. And my little lie about her being to blame for the video… I know Margo better than that.
I left, and Lenora was still crying. Robert rubbed her back to console her. I wish they’d waited until after I was gone to do that.
Eli: You schmoozing the Jenkinses? Freaked Sheep out that you were there.
I pause.
Margo saw my car? Did she hear? I’d figured Eli would take his sweet time getting out of there. He was supposed to offer to take them to breakfast or some shit. Give me time to cause some mayhem and leave.
Dickhead.
“Shit.” I slam my hand against the steering wheel.
I dial her number and wait.
It goes to voicemail.
I dial again, just in case.
It must be off, because it barely rings once before it switches over to her breathy voice.
This plan… It was set in stone a while ago. Pulling her down piece by piece. But I’m not ready for her to fall—not yet. I’m not done with her. She can’t break yet.
Seven years ago, she broke me. Now I’m just showing her what she created.
A beast in my chest demands to be free—a beast that only wants Margo’s blood.
I pound my hands on the steering wheel again, in rapid succession.
Slowly, I drop the walls around the demons I keep locked away. It’s nice to let the darkness take over. Fury washes through me, but it’s calm, liquid ice.
Margo Wolfe may have run away, but I’m going to find her and bring her back, even if it kills me.
We’re not done.
Eventually, she’ll shatter for me, and the game will finally be over.
