DEBORAHS' POV
The sound of Elijah vomiting into the trash can replayed in my head like music. Not because it was pleasant. It wasn't. But because it was the sound of someone breaking. Finally. After months of watching him skate through life untouched by the things he did to me, there it was. Raw, uncontrollable disgust. Fear. I didn't even flinch when he hurled the vase. If anything, it only thrilled me more.
I had the power. I was the man.
He was losing grip. I had his leash, whether he knew it yet or not.
I lingered downstairs longer than I needed to, pretending to organize my things. My fingers brushed the edge of my purse where the folder had been, the place where the devil's proof had once sat before I threw it into the flames of his carefully arranged little world. He thought it was a threat and he could not be anymore wrong. That had been a gift. A warning. A tease. Not a threat, not yet.
