A.R. Torre

“I told her that I didn’t care if they hate me. I’m not in the business of being liked.”

After all, you’ve got to know your enemy before you can destroy them.”

Broken women cannot be held accountable for their actions.

“We all know who’s really holding the purse strings, dear. Men wouldn’t know where their shoes went if we weren’t there to point to their feet.”

So I put my plan into action, and I did.

Carelessness like that was how cases were lost, secrets were spread, and careers were destroyed.

I know there’s always been a true and weak moment where the thought—the hope—flickers. For most people, it’s fleeting. For some—like John—it was a splinter. A deep splinter that broke off under the skin, the sort that was almost impossible to remove unless you peeled back the entire area, and no one would do that, so it festered. It grew infected. It killed and ate away at surrounding healthy tissue and throbbed and ached and dominated every thought and action until it controlled an entire life.

I digested the apology and found that it tasted sincere.

Losing a child was like losing a limb. You were reminded of it every time you moved, until the consistent adjustments to life became a permanent part of you.

“I did not saddle him up and ride him like a prize stallion,” I said wryly. “It was more like an arthritic grandma on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”