Terra Elan McVoy
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What would you do for love? Nikki helps her boyfriend commit murder in this “dark, devastating, and realistic portrait of a girl in over her head” (Publishers Weekly).
Nikki’s life is far from perfect, but at least she has Dee. Her friends tell her that Dee is no good, but Nikki can’t imagine herself without him. He’s hot, he’s dangerous, he has her initials tattooed over his heart, and she loves him more than anything. There’s nothing Nikki wouldn’t do for Dee. Absolutely nothing.
So when Dee pulls Nikki into a crime – a crime that ends in murder – Nikki tells herself that it’s all for true love. Nothing can break them apart. Not the police. Not the arrest that lands Nikki in jail. Not even the investigators who want her to testify against him.
But what if Dee had motives that Nikki knew nothing about?
Nikki’s love for Dee is supposed to be unconditional…but even true love has a limit. And Nikki just might have reached hers.
real reason why he’d done this. Done it because he thought it meant he would be with her. Used me to help just because he knew I’d do anything he said. And no amount of anything was going to make it an easier truth to swallow. I covered up my face. The prosecutor’s voice was kinder this time: “I understand that this is probably upsetting to you, Nikki, but it would help me to at least know whether you had any knowledge of Mr. Pavon’s relationship with Ms. Palmer and if there was anything he
say it out loud. To be acknowledging it at all. “Not me, really. I mean, I wasn’t the one with the guns. But I drove. I helped. And then I didn’t tell anyone. So I might as well have shot him.” She nodded once. “That’s how they see it.” “Thing is . . .” I was breathing hard, but it felt good, the blood moving in me. “I think that’s how I need to see it too.” “If you want to get better, it’d help.” I snuck a glance over to see if she was being sarcastic. She wasn’t. I WAS STILL UNABLE TO
the fabric of my sweatpants. DuPree was nice about it. He just stood there while I cried. Waited. Didn’t rush me. Probably he’d seen this kind of thing happen before. People finally getting hold of exactly what they’d done. Seeing what they’d seen in their own heads so many times, only this time, finally from the victim’s side of it. “There’s nothing I can do to make it right,” I said, trying to breathe normal again. “This man’s dead. His daughter has nobody, and I—” “You’re doing what you
loose. Even though he was sitting straight, hands folded in front of him on the table, his whole body seemed to say he had nothing to worry about. Like this was an interview for a job he knew he’d get. Easy. Confident. Not a worry in the world. But here was the thing. He couldn’t look at me. And it was because of this that I got through the first series of questions: basic things like my name, where I lived and worked, my age, did I know the defendant, how did we meet. Though my voice quivered
or his other friends, a tiny, buried part of me kept aching for the wild, borderless feeling I’d had with him. It wanted to be sucked up into the tornado of wanting him again. To lose myself—all of it—in the hot, damp satisfaction of taking whatever he dished out. “And you never knew,” Hampton said, “about Mr. Pavon’s relationship with Miss Palmer, is that correct?” For a second I looked at him. Quivered. But he was forever blank. “That’s correct.” “Did you ever meet Miss Palmer? Or speak to