The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove by Lauren Kate

Author:Lauren Kate
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

CHAPTER Eleven

AT ODDS WITH MORNING

On Sunday morning, I lay in my canopy bed surrounded by the remnants of one of Mom’s white frilly pillow projects—and the ghosts of my testosterone-filled past. I had J.B.’s seizure meds in one hand and my cell phone opened to my dad’s third unanswered text in the other hand. Two men I thought I’d rid myself of, two signs that I’d been very wrong indeed. I looked back and forth from one hand to the other, feeling utterly trapped between them.

If I was as strong as I dared Mike to be, I could not give these men a free pass to unhinge me. No. I had to unhinge them.

Reminding myself that I was merely revising—not actually breaking—the vow of silence I took against my dad back when he skipped town, I hit the compose button on my phone. I needed to send the kind of message I wouldn’t have had the courage to send back then, when the vow of silence was as far as I could go.

Save the ‘Daddy’s home’ charade and just spit out what you want.

I tried to imagine his reaction, the way the wrinkles around his silverfish eyes would fall slack—but the point was not to think of him. The point was to think of myself.

Send.

It took a moment to realize that my heart wasn’t racing. I was calm and collected. Okay. One talisman down, one to go.

My father had been haunting me because I let him. Now, with J.B.’s coffin still fresh in the ground, I only hoped I could put him to rest as well.

I’d spent the past week fumbling with the prescription bottle, and I guess my palms had been sweatier than usual because the label was starting to peel off. I tugged at the sticker, and before I knew it, the whole label came off in my hand.

Oh crap. Had I just multiplied the evidence? Or—had I made it easier to dispose of? Mom had a paper shredder downstairs (a divorcee’s best friend, she liked to say)—but I couldn’t risk a run-in with her. Better to be my own paper shredder.

I dashed to the bathroom and hunched over the salmon-colored toilet bowl, snipping the label into flushable-size pieces. They fell into the bowl like feathers, and soon I couldn’t make out the word anti-seizure at all.

All week, I’d been wondering whether someone at Palmetto would leak the details about J.B.’s condition, but the actual cause of his death seemed to still be a public mystery. I guess it didn’t surprise me. As interested as they were in the classic southern facade of perfection, J.B.’s family would be exactly the type to want to keep his seizures on the down low. Maybe when I flushed the toilet, I would just be following their lead.

Now about the actual pills. All I had to do was flush them, too. As soon as the tank filled up, I’d just hold them upside down over the bowl and free myself of them.

My wrist hovered over the toilet.

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