Deadly Little Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

is in full view—with three branches, not four.
    Just the way I sculpted it.
    “If it’s Matt you’re worried about,” he continues, “he’s been ordered to keep his distance. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to come after you again.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I don’t.”
    “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.” I take another step toward him—so close that our faces are only inches apart. “Touch me,” I say.
    Ben’s mouth tenses. He tries to move away, to act like it doesn’t bother him, but I’ve got him completely cornered.
    “Please.” I reach out to take his hand, stopping just shy of his fingers.
    “Don’t,” he whispers. His voice is soft and broken. “Please . . . this isn’t easy for me.”
    “I thought you said it would make things easier .”
    Ben lets out another breath, as if trying to stay in control.
    “Touch me,” I repeat, staring at his lips and at the sharpness of his jaw. “And tell me if I’m in danger.”
    Ben finally looks at me. His eyes draw a zigzag line down my face, stopping at my mouth. He unfolds his arms and extends his palm to my shoulder. But he doesn’t touch it. His fingers tremble. His breath is warm and erratic against my neck.
    “I can’t,” he says, wiping a droplet of sweat from his cheek.
    “You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.
    “Go,” he says, staring straight into my eyes, making it clear that he truly doesn’t want me here. That he no longer wants any part of me.

 8 
    January 23, 1984
    Dear Diary,
    My birthday sucked. My mother took Jilly to the movies. They saw Sixteen Candles and my mother kept raving about how great it was.
    It’s fine that they didn’t ask me to go. I didn’t want to see that movie anyway.
    I know my mother hates me. I know she wishes I wasn’t here. And I know she thinks that if I’d never come to be, my father wouldn’t have left.
    At least that’s what she tells me. I never had the chance to ask him if it’s true. Because once he left, he never looked back. And my mother’s been punishing me ever since.
    Love,
Alexia

9

    After school, I head straight to Knead, even though I’m not scheduled to work. I just really want to get away.
    The thing is, as soon as I unlock the door—as soon as the smell of clay and glazes hits me—I realize that maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. On one hand it’s almost instinctive to come here—to retreat into my safe haven of clay, slip, and carving tools. And yet, the idea of sculpting anything new absolutely terrifies me right now.
    I just can’t shake my last three sculptures. It seems so far from coincidental now, like maybe subconsciously I already know the future somehow, but my mind doesn’t want to face it. Or maybe my sculptures force me to look at what I already must know.
    And yet, how could I have known I’d forget my key?
    How could I have predicted that Ben’s eyes would peer at me through the door of the art studio?
    And how could I have known exactly how to sculpt his scar?
    My head throbs just thinking about it all and what it could mean, especially coupled with what happened last September.
    I never really questioned it too much at the time, but back when I was getting weird notes and packages—when Matt was plotting to take me captive—I started a new way of sculpting.
    My boss, Spencer, convinced me to stop trying to control my work, to let my pottery take on its own shape for a change. A control freak by nature, I’d been sculpting bowls and bowl-like things since the first time I’d held a ball of clay. It was easy and I was good at it. But when he suggested a new approach, I thought I’d try it.
    The result had been an abandoned car. I’d sculpted it over a handful of days: the dented doors, the crushed grille and bullet holes in the side. It was the same car I’d spotted in the trailer park where Matt had kept me captive . . . right down to the missing wheels.
    Should I be calling that a coincidence too?
    To add to my