Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

his wallet, I pocketed one of his business cards along with the notecard of account numbers. I took one last look at Alfred Danielson, his face frozen in pain even in death.

Pills weren’t my favorite method. Too impersonal. Too detached.

But I couldn’t deny they’d been the right choice for him.

The familiar satisfaction filled me as I headed home to add his business card to the rest.

This was a good one.

_______________

IT WAS TIME.

For nearly a week, I’d watched my already broken Briar fall apart. If she’d been closed off before, she’d become a fortress. Completely pulled away from the few people she let in. Even work didn’t seem to bring her any happiness.

Her schedule stayed the same—the shelter, the center, or home. But that’s where her routine changed.

Every day when she got home, she’d ignore the flowers waiting outside her apartment as she hurried inside. She’d lock the door, checking it more than once, before heading right to the closet to take out her kit. She’d line up the contents and stare—sometimes for minutes, other time for hours—before packing it all away again.

Each time, the longing in her expression became more evident. The yearning became starker. Then the pain and self-loathing would weigh her down, stealing the bare hints of happiness she’d allowed herself.

She was wilting, her stem unable to shoulder the burden of the world.

It was time.

Chapter Thirteen

Failing

Briar

For routines

I’VE GOTTA GET out of here.

Group had been never ending. I’d done my part, sharing some bullshit lie about how much I adored my new succulent and mini tree.

I’d barely looked at either.

When the hour finally wrapped up, I was sure my skin was about to peel away from the bone.

I wished it would.

My quick escape was thwarted by Derrick. He’d made his rounds, saying goodbye to each person individually and offering some small praise or compliment. Reaching me, he stopped closer to my personal-space-bubble than I preferred. “Good job again tonight.”

“Thanks.”

I should’ve known ending the night on a compliment was too good to be true. I just wasn’t expecting the bombshell he flattened me with. “Dr. Linda and I were talking, and we think it might be a good idea if you added another group session.”

“Wait, why?”

Because you’re fucked-up, and they know it.

They.

Know.

Everything.

A small, reassuring smile curved his mouth. “We’re seeing a lot of progress, but we think you could benefit from more engagement with others.”

You’re failing. How do you fucking fail at therapy?

You let everyone down.

Again.

Cotton coated my mouth, making swallowing impossible. Speaking was like pushing the words through the shattered vase. “I’m trying.”

And I was. I was trying so hard. Some of it may have been forced, but it was still a huge effort.

“We know.” His sad eyes said what he didn’t.

That my trying it wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

He stepped back. “Talk it over with Dr. Linda at your next session.”

“I will.”

I expected him to offer some bullshit banality or, worse, to page Aria for me. Instead, he smiled as he said goodbye before turning away.

Usually when everything became too much, my brain detached from my body. Or, as Dr. Linda put it, I disassociated. I’d give anything for that to happen. I spent the bus ride trying to force it to happen. But the weight of my failure was too heavy. It pressed on my shoulders. It sat on my chest. It stole my breath.

The whole way home, all I heard was how I wasn’t good enough. That I was a burden.

It looped through my head, but instead of it being spewed in my mother’s voice, it was all of them. My father. Derrick. Dr. Linda.

And Aria.

I’d let everyone down.

I was out of my seat and standing at the door before the bus even pulled to the curb. Practically running inside, I noticed there were no flowers waiting.

Good.

They gave up on me, too.

I closed the door behind before backtracking to lock it—just in case. Rustling through my closet, I came up empty.

Where did I put it?

I started throwing boxes and coats out, panic clawing at me as I searched everywhere.

I needed it.

But it was gone.

My pouch was gone.

I hurried into the living room to search, even though I knew I’d put it away where it belonged. I knew it.

Shit.

There it was, spread out on my coffee table. Positioned precisely.

I’m losing it.

I’ve always been off, but now I’m really, really losing it.

I realized there was something else off other than myself. Before I could put my finger on it, the soft swell of music stole my attention. I thought it was my coming from my neighbor’s, but as the volume increased, it wasn’t muffled through the shared wall.

Like every bad horror movie, it was coming from inside the apartment.

And like every bad horror movie victim, I didn’t run for safety. No, I inched forward to investigate, following the sad melody until I saw it.

A lens.

The lens of a teeny, tiny camera that was mounted against the window frame.

The sound cut off before picking up in a different location—either the hallway, bathroom, or bedroom.

Someone was playing with me.

Showing off their handywork.

Confessing.

With the creak of the floor and the hairs on the back of my neck standing, I knew before I even turned around.

Whoever it was…

They were right behind me.

Chapter Fourteen

Three Weeks Ago

Him/Alexander

NO GOOD DEED goes unpunished.

I was learning that firsthand. Because in exchange for cutting a huge check to the Redmond Mental Health Center, I was being slowly tortured with a long as fuck tour of the facility I had no interest in seeing. And the entourage of kiss-asses they’d assigned to me kept making the damn thing longer by taking every opportunity to stop the welcome wagon in order to point out some change or upgrade they’d make with my money.

Echoing my thoughts, Craig—my CFO—leaned over to whisper, “Why are you doing this again?”

“Because it’s important to give back.”

And because I know what these people—or at least ones like them—have gone through.

“Maybe if you donated more, you could buy yourself out of the tour next time,” he muttered.

It