Read Online The Last Good Girl by Allison Leotta - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allison Leotta
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Momâs advice at all. Itâs so sad. She didnât used to be this way. She used to be a good mom. But last year changed her. All she cares about now is getting even, getting back at Dad for ruining her life. Everything is about that now. Every piece of advice she gives me is really a strategy either to get information about Dad or hurt him. I see Preya talking to her mom, getting feedback without a hidden agenda, and Iâm so jealous. I so wish I had a mom like that.
I feel so alone.
And Dad. What a clichéâfalling for a woman almost young enough to be his daughter, a woman who works for him. Lying about it for months before Mom caught him. No question, he was a terrible husband. But heâs not a terrible dad. I still love him, and I donât want to hurt him. I definitely donât want to tell him about my sex life.
What am I even doing, talking about my family on the vlog? This is supposed to be an assignment, not therapy. Whatever. Iâm obviously not posting this anywhere. But it helps, actually, to talk about it. Even just to myself. Because Iâm the only one who can figure this thing out.
So.
What the hell am I gonna do?
7
W ater, flowers, and shards of crystal exploded across the living room. Blood spurted from a gash in Barneyâs hairline, spattering the ivory walls with crimson. The president slumped sideways on the couch. A red stain spread on the white cushions under his head. Beatrice cradled her hand as blood poured from her palm, where the broken vase had sliced. Her expression was one of shocked uncertainty, as if wondering whether to apologize or hit him again. Samantha grabbed Beatrice, pulled her arms behind her back, and pushed her chest first against a wall.
âOh my God! Barney!â Kristen clambered to kneel over her fiancé. She cradled his head in her hands, which were instantly soaked crimson. âHeâs dead. You killed him! You crazy bitch!â
âMy daughter is missing and he wonât help the police!â Beatrice tried to lunge at Kristen. Sam held her tight against the wall.
Anna herded Kristen to the opposite side of the room, near the kitchen, so that she and Beatrice wouldnât tangle. âStay right here,â Anna said. âCall 911.â Kristen didnât answer. âCan you do that, Kristen?â Anna raised her voice. âI need your help. Kristen, can you stand right here and call 911?â Kristen blinked, then nodded and took out her phone. Anna strode back to the couch, carefully wending her way through the broken crystal, scattered flowers, and water. She knelt next to Barney. His face was slack and pale, almost as white as the sofa had been a few moments before. Blood continued to spread across the cushions, the only movement on the couch. The president himself was still as stone.
Anna cursed under her breath. Sheâd handled hundreds of domestic violence cases. She knew that every tense domestic situation presented danger. She just hadnât expected to find it here in this beautifully appointed academic home. But it was a lesson she often repeated: domestic violence wasnât just a problem for the poor and uneducated. It could happen to anyone, anywhere. All the Arhaus furniture and philosophy textbooks in the world couldnât guarantee against primeval rage.
Anna held her breath as she picked up Barneyâs arm and put a finger on his clammy wrist. She felt nothing. Oh God, was he dead? Could a man be killed with a single blow from a crystal vase? Anna once had a case where a man had been killed with a hamster cage. She supposed anything was possible. Still holding her breath, she moved her fingers a centimeter over on his wrist. There was his pulse: strong, even, and fast as a birdâs. She finally exhaled. âHeâs not dead,â Anna called to Sam. Her relief was mirrored on the agentâs face.
Kristen was giving the address to the 911 operator. Anna said,
I feel so alone.
And Dad. What a clichéâfalling for a woman almost young enough to be his daughter, a woman who works for him. Lying about it for months before Mom caught him. No question, he was a terrible husband. But heâs not a terrible dad. I still love him, and I donât want to hurt him. I definitely donât want to tell him about my sex life.
What am I even doing, talking about my family on the vlog? This is supposed to be an assignment, not therapy. Whatever. Iâm obviously not posting this anywhere. But it helps, actually, to talk about it. Even just to myself. Because Iâm the only one who can figure this thing out.
So.
What the hell am I gonna do?
7
W ater, flowers, and shards of crystal exploded across the living room. Blood spurted from a gash in Barneyâs hairline, spattering the ivory walls with crimson. The president slumped sideways on the couch. A red stain spread on the white cushions under his head. Beatrice cradled her hand as blood poured from her palm, where the broken vase had sliced. Her expression was one of shocked uncertainty, as if wondering whether to apologize or hit him again. Samantha grabbed Beatrice, pulled her arms behind her back, and pushed her chest first against a wall.
âOh my God! Barney!â Kristen clambered to kneel over her fiancé. She cradled his head in her hands, which were instantly soaked crimson. âHeâs dead. You killed him! You crazy bitch!â
âMy daughter is missing and he wonât help the police!â Beatrice tried to lunge at Kristen. Sam held her tight against the wall.
Anna herded Kristen to the opposite side of the room, near the kitchen, so that she and Beatrice wouldnât tangle. âStay right here,â Anna said. âCall 911.â Kristen didnât answer. âCan you do that, Kristen?â Anna raised her voice. âI need your help. Kristen, can you stand right here and call 911?â Kristen blinked, then nodded and took out her phone. Anna strode back to the couch, carefully wending her way through the broken crystal, scattered flowers, and water. She knelt next to Barney. His face was slack and pale, almost as white as the sofa had been a few moments before. Blood continued to spread across the cushions, the only movement on the couch. The president himself was still as stone.
Anna cursed under her breath. Sheâd handled hundreds of domestic violence cases. She knew that every tense domestic situation presented danger. She just hadnât expected to find it here in this beautifully appointed academic home. But it was a lesson she often repeated: domestic violence wasnât just a problem for the poor and uneducated. It could happen to anyone, anywhere. All the Arhaus furniture and philosophy textbooks in the world couldnât guarantee against primeval rage.
Anna held her breath as she picked up Barneyâs arm and put a finger on his clammy wrist. She felt nothing. Oh God, was he dead? Could a man be killed with a single blow from a crystal vase? Anna once had a case where a man had been killed with a hamster cage. She supposed anything was possible. Still holding her breath, she moved her fingers a centimeter over on his wrist. There was his pulse: strong, even, and fast as a birdâs. She finally exhaled. âHeâs not dead,â Anna called to Sam. Her relief was mirrored on the agentâs face.
Kristen was giving the address to the 911 operator. Anna said,
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