"That three million, it really was a company emergency! A project went sideways and I needed to cover it!"
The excuse was so familiar it barely registered.
Five years ago, he had said the same thing.
Cash flow problems. The company needed funds.
I believed him. I voluntarily stopped my father's targeted therapy and handed over every cent of our savings.
Then I traced the bank withdrawal to an address, and the door I pushed open led to a luxury apartment.
The young college girl was wearing nothing but an apron hanging loosely off her shoulders.
She came out of the kitchen carrying a plate, picked up a piece of food with her chopsticks, and fed it to Jesse with a smile.
In that moment, every light in my world went out.
When I still didn't respond, Jesse began slapping himself again, wild, frenzied, over and over.
The sharp cracks echoed through the empty living room.
"Lucretia, hit me. Scream at me. Do whatever you want. Just don't shut me out."
He cupped my face with trembling hands, took a cotton swab from the first-aid kit, and dabbed at the blood on my cheek, bit by bit.
His touch was feather-light, as though he were handling something irreplaceable.