They still thought the person who'd been kidnapped was my birth mother, a woman who'd lived her whole life in the countryside and had never once set foot near the Henson family's front door.
Chester's voice cut back in, suddenly vicious.
"Ella. I'm asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?"
"No need."
My voice was flat. Not a ripple.
"I'm not coming."
"You've got nerve now, haven't you? For the sake of your pathetic little pride, you'd let your own mother die?"
Chester sneered through the screen.
"I always knew you were cold-blooded. Back then, you'd have done anything to crawl into my bed. You didn't care about dignity then. So what's with the act now?"
"What happened to all that self-respect when you stripped down and threw yourself at me? Did the dogs eat it?"
The memories crashed over me like a flood.
Three years.
He never stopped throwing that night in my face. It was his favorite weapon, the blade he twisted every time he wanted to humiliate me.
But only I knew what really happened.
That night, I wasn't the one who made a move.
He was the one who'd been blind drunk. He was the one who grabbed my wrist so hard I couldn't pull free.