One Hundred Pranks, One True End

son I called

nd ring. "Ava, sweethear

t of my throat. The dam of my composure, so care

spered, the

was my father, Richard Miller. A quiet, unassuming history prof

The abstract sculpture in the foyer he' d bought me for my birthday? A gift to celebrate "Prank #56." The sil

for him, sketched his face from memory a thousand times. I had poured m

him. My heart was the playing fie

m everything, my voice flat and empty. I told him about Liam, about Chloe, abou

a cold, controlled fury I had rarely seen. When I was

The words felt heavy, but right

ng wound in me, the part of my soul that had been methodically tortured

itter smile touching my lips. "The hundredth

othes, anything that was truly mine. As I emptied a drawer of my sketchbooks, I found

the better of

as full of sketches of me. Me sleeping, me painting, me laughin

he had written: Her brow furrows when she' s foc

paint under her nails almost all the time.

this part of the game, too? A prop lef

item: a custom-designed engagement ring. The description matched a design I had idly sketched myself once, a

e me? Was it possible that in the midst of his crue

ford. Because even if he did love me, it was a love built on a foundation of lies and cruelty. It was a lov

nto my bag. They were evidence. Not of hi

ancy test from my pocket and looked at the two blue lines. This baby was conceived i

nsion of his sick joke. I couldn't look at my child

nths ago. I made an appointment for the next morning. It was a brutal, gut-wre

, oblivious. He wrapped his arms around me f

ure?" he murmured into

ing. Just a cold, empty spac

dog," he said. "Maybe a golden r

torture. He was painting a beautiful picture

sounded like an insult. In his prank journal, he' d writ

lent, a statu

wed with fake concern. "Is everythi

uld have thrilled me just this morning. Now, it f

, my voice a monot

oice soft. "I'll hold you. You al

orm inside me. He was a monster who thought he was a prince, and I was the fo