Page 70 of Lessons in Cruelty

That I regret.

My hand slams into the steering wheel. Then I do it again, because the pain isn’t intense enough, and I can still see Kai’s eyes, that deep eleven between his brows.

Again.

Again.

Breathing out slow and steady, I take my phone out of my tote bag and balance it on my thigh. Then I hesitate and push the button to open the glove box. It falls down, scattering a few things into the passenger-side footwell.

I ignore them.

The good shit is buried deep.

Deep, deep, deep.

I take out an envelope, fold it open, and slip out the page folded up inside.

Smooth it out on my other thigh.

The paper is soft from years of handling, stained with tears.

Emotions I thought I’d annihilated years ago pour back inside me like they never left.

Shock. Guilt. Shame.

I blink back the tears. Inhale a shuddering breath.

Don’t need to read the note. I’ve committed it to memory years ago.

I WISH I NEVER MET U

I FUCKING HATE U

BURN IN HELL

Bastian loves speculating about the nature of cruelty?

This is right up his alley.

Swallowing, I unlock my phone and hold it up over the piece of paper, waiting for my hand to stop shaking. Then I zoom in so the words scrawled on the bottom like an afterthought aren’t visible in the shot.

Click.

I carefully fold up the paper and slide it back into the envelope. But I don’t put it back in the glove box, because what’s the fucking point?

If I had a lighter, I’d burn it.

But until I get a wallet, I can use the envelope to store my cash.

I take a breath, wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweater, and DM the pic to my professor.

No context.

No explanation.

No ‘caption.’

If Professor Rooke’s as clever as he thinks he is, he won’t need any.