Proven Guilty (Treadmill III)

IV

I have never hated anyone more than I hated Hank Wilcox.

            But my father was a very, very close second.

            I took sides in the divorce, like I think most kids do. I sided with my mother, even if she was just as manipulative as he was. She was just nicer to us, growing up. My father couldn't have been bothered to remember my middle name, let alone care about my wellbeing.

            But it became more than that.

            It was as if, when my parents separated, I could see my father with much more clarity than I had ever been able to while living under 'his roof.' The frost had melted from the window I saw my father through, and what had once been a blurry outline of a not-so-great person became a sharp, clear image of a terrible man.

            Wealth is the most bizarre thing. It turns people into machines. Heartless. Emotionless. Feelingless. Kristopher Abrams was one of the best-oiled machines in the business.

            He married a young model who was wealthy in her own right. I never understood why she married him if she didn't need his money. I also didn't stop to consider the possibility that she would, at a later date, set me up for killing her high school sweetheart.

            My apologies. I'm making everything about me.

            Let's continue, shall we?

            It's still about me, though.

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            "I will not be speaking with you."

            Her father didn't seem the least bit miffed by Kennedy's response to his greeting. Instead, he sat down across from her. His wife followed close behind.

            "You," Kennedy growled as her stepmother took a seat, "I cannot believe you betrayed us."

            Lydia raised an eyebrow.

            "I was in a state of shock while in the hotel. I came to my senses a few days later."

            Kennedy's gaze shot to her father, forgetting her promise of a few seconds earlier to not speak with him.

            "So, you know? You know she's the one who did this?"

            Kristopher sighed—the kind of sigh that a parent made when their children were bickering.

            Disgusting.

            "Lydia told me what unfolded on that night. I'm deeply sorry that Jaxson had to die, but I understand why she needed to do what she did."

            Kennedy waited for him to say more, but he declined.

            "You understand why she needed to do what she did? Do you also understand how she rationalized framing your daughter for it?"

            "This is a complicated situation, Kennedy." Lydia leaned forward and Kennedy noticed her long, stiletto-shaped red fingernails. While Kennedy had been trying to figure out how she was going to prove her innocence, Lydia had been out getting a manicure. "Your father is trying to do what's best for the family."

            "Don't say 'the family' as if you somehow have a part in it." Kennedy muttered. Lydia didn't seem put off by her stepdaughter's tone; she sat back in her seat and focused her gaze on a point somewhere above Kennedy's head. Silent.