Ford
TRUTH IS A DIRTY LIAR.
People always claim there's three sides/truths to every story: one party's truth, the opposing party's truth, and the actual truth. The reality gets lost along the way and manifests itself into a fabrication of someone's belief or their darkest desire.
In this social media-prevalent and technology-rife day and age, it's all too easy to lie, facilitating deceit and distrust. No foundations are safe anymore. All it takes is one crack to begin with to weaken the entire infrastructure. And some of the lies aren't just pulse-pounding, but soul-shattering and entirely destroying.
Sorry, babe, she kissed me.
I was drunk. I would never have done it sober.
I love you.
You mean everything to me.
I'm dying.
And the best lie of all?
Because you're Harris' girl.
She's never fucking going to be Harris' girl and I refuse to believe that she is now.
Regardless, it won't be for much longer.
That's my promise. I'm not entirely certain of how I'll rectify that—more than likely orchestrate a situation where he coincidentally happens to reveal his true feelings regarding Genevieve as she lays waiting in the back, listening intently to every word, considering she's so fucking skilled at eavesdropping. And while I'm no saint and she will possibly never yield to the prospect of being my infatuation, at least she won't be his.
With the smugness concocting with the simmering ire already present in my body, I simply gaze at the progress bar exhibited on my laptop screen. Earlier in the evening I texted Jeremiah and requested certain items to be delivered including my laptop, which fosters the capability to extract data from an electronic storage device or computer-based device and trace messages and emails, as well as food because Genevieve's rumbling stomach was thunderous in the silent house, and whatever she requested on a list she showed me that she composed on her phone.
Having situated myself in Hudson's bedroom while licensing Genevieve to have free roam downstairs—permitting she doesn't go scouring through every nook and cranny because it'll be a bitch to eradicate that much DNA—I do briefly wonder how she's occupying her time as I have her phone cabled up to my laptop. It does also mean I have total access to her phone, and some of the messages Harris sends to her are borderline disturbing.
Just as the progress bar fills, completed, I immediately register the footsteps ascending the stairs. The data loads up on my laptop screen and as I persist with waiting, I incline my head over my shoulder just enough to view Genevieve loiter at the threshold, uncertainty monopolising her. Her eyes glaze across the room before settling to meet mine.
"Can I..." she trails off, gesturing noncommittedly at the bedroom, though I have a feeling she means the bed as that's the only other available place to sit.
Impulsively, I want to retort with some smartass comment in a vain attempt to goad her because arguing with her seems to be one of my better qualities, believe it or not, but the remark dies on my lips. Somehow, we've reached a cordial agreement and our conflict has been temporarily put on hold. I can work with that. Maybe it will act as its own foundation for cementing the fact that Harris truly does not care for Genevieve and enabling her to somehow divulge that information.
"Sure," I reply easily, turning my attention back to the laptop.
Hudson's thumb drive neighbours the laptop at a meticulously precise angle. Earlier, deep in rumination as I commenced the extraction of data from Genevieve's phone to the laptop to trace the origin of the message, I was fiddling aimlessly with it. As soon as I was finished speculating how William's original clusterfuck could have broadened so spectacularly, I thought only of Genevieve and how to cleanse her of Harris, because that's effectively what it will be. Without Harris, she will be purified.
