"And this?" Edward looked at the car like they were evidence in a murder trial. "A Mercedes, Linda? Really?" His laugh was the kind that reminded you why some kids deserved swirlies in high school.
"What are you doing for money these days? Finally putting that body to work? "Spreading your legs for the right doctors, perhaps? Following in your adopted son's mother's footsteps?"
Sarah's grip on my hand changed from "please don't" to "if you move, I'll break your wrist." Her nails dug in so hard she could've signed her name in my skin.
For someone barely over a hundred pounds, she had a grip like a bear trap. My blood was literally on her hands.
"Don't," she whispered. "He wants you to hit him." He just called my mother a whore. In her own living room. In front of her children. This isn't a test of self-control. This is a goddamn Olympic qualifier.
