The Perfect Ruin

by Shanora Williams

  The Perfect Ruin

  Shanora Williams

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  PART ONE - BEFORE THE RUIN

  CHAPTER THREE - IVY

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PART TWO - START OF THE RUIN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - GEORGIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY - IVY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  PART THREE - THE PERFECT RUIN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - GEORGIA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - IVY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - GEORGIA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - IVY

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - GEORGIA

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Discussion Questions for The Perfect Ruin

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Shanora Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  The Dafina logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3110-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3113-5 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3113-1 (e-book)

  First Electronic Edition: August 2021

  Dedicated to my boys.

  I love you all dearly.

  PROLOGUE

  You are just a woman. A woman with hate in her heart and darkness in her soul.

  You hate yourself, so you take it out on everyone else. You are scorned. Broken. Pathetic.

  You will suffer at my hands.

  I will ruin you . . . and you won’t even see me coming.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ivy stared at the fish tank across from her, scratching at her cuticle, simmering with irritation. She’d studied all the fish in the bubbling water so many times she’d lost count, but there was a new one in the tank today.

  The new fish was blood-orange with white spots. Its body was flat, its left fin ugly and stubby, just like the right fin as it rotated in the tank. The fish appeared lost—like it had no clue what the hell it was doing in the glass box. It had been snatched from the comfort of its own home. Trapped in a tank.

  Ivy knew the feeling of being trapped—except she hadn’t been trapped in tanks. She’d been trapped in box-sized rooms or, worse, forced to share a box-sized room with another person around her age whom she’d never gotten along with. How it must have sucked to share a single tank with eight other fish, glugging the same water and fighting over pellets of food.

  A door opened to the left and a woman with cornrows down to her shoulders, narrow, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose, and bright pink lipstick walked out. The woman was always dressed like a hippie. Loose blouses and pants, and god-awful sandals that Ivy used to call Bible sandals. The woman loved wearing colorful scarves around her neck, even when it was almost one hundred degrees outside. Today she was wearing a yellow and green one.

  “Welcome, Ivy,” Dr. Harold said from the door, bringing her hands together joyously. Ivy stood up with her purse and sighed. It was the same old thing with her therapist, Dr. Marriott Harold. Big smiles and gratefulness.

  Her name was Marriott to rhyme with Harriet, as Marriott had mentioned once. Marriott’s mother liked the name Harriet. . . so why didn’t she just name Marriot, Harriet? It never made sense to Ivy. It made her confused and she hated confusion.

  Marriott was single and didn’t have much of a life outside of being a therapist. No family and not many friends. She had three cats—Whitney, Stevie, and Mikey. All three of them were named after her favorite musical artists, Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, and Michael Jackson. Ivy found her life boring and irrelevant.

  Nonetheless, she met Dr. Harold every single Wednesday to perform a therapy session. Dr. Harold insisted Ivy call her Marriott, stating that “Dr. Harold” was too formal and that they were friends who could trust each other. Ivy often wondered if Marriott meant it—that she trusted her. No one ever trusted Ivy. She was a rebel, a liar, a thief, and a con artist. She could steal from babies and not feel any remorse.

  “How are you today? I trust you have been resting.” Marriott watched as Ivy walked past her.

  Ivy walked into Marriott’s office, placed her purse on the usual chair in the corner, and then flopped down on a cushioned brown chaise. It was her favorite spot to get through her fifty-five-minute sessions, but it was starting to get worn. Marriott would have to replace it soon.

  The older Ivy became, the less often she’d have to come to this cuckoo’s nest. She could have been done sooner, but when she had turned twenty-one, Marriott had the choice of keeping Ivy in therapy or considering it safe for her to move on and start a new life. Marriott told the judge Ivy needed more time to cope. Ivy had despised the damn therapist ever since. So why did she continue her visits? Why not just stop showing up? A part of her had to like the sessions, right?

  Apparently, the whole world thought Ivy was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and a host of other issues. She’d heard Marriott tell the judge that she was having some obsessive behavior with a boy and with certain events from her past, which was sparking other mental disorders within her.

  Ivy considered it all bullshit. She was fine, just dealing with shit like the rest of the world. Was it not normal to have to deal with shit?

  “How can I rest?” Ivy grumbled, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s close to the anniversary. I haven’t slept all week.”

  “Yes, I remember the anniversary is coming up.” Marriott fidgeted by the door. Ivy side-eyed her. She was acting weird. Smiling, but not as wide and bold as usual. “Have you been taking your antidepressants?” Marriott asked, sinking down in her usual brown recliner across the room. Finally. She was sitting. Relaxing. Ivy’s body relaxed too.

  Ivy avoided the therapist
’s eyes as she recalled dumping all the antidepressants down the kitchen sink and then turning on the trash disposal. “To hell with those,” Ivy had muttered as she watched the pills disappear. She didn’t like how they made her feel. Her head was often foggy while on them, and she became too sleepy, was losing too much weight. She was fine without them.

  “Yes, I’ve taken them.” She held back a grin, glancing at Marriott’s degree tacked to the wall, just above her desk, which was stacked with papers, folders, and a cold cup of coffee sitting close to the edge.

  Ivy always stared at the degree and couldn’t believe a woman like Marriott had one. She shouldn’t be a therapist for adults. Marriott was too cheerful and bright and colorful. It made Ivy sick. She’d suit kids much better.

  “Good.” Marriott sighed. She was avoiding Ivy’s eyes. Still acting strange. “So, since we’re close to the anniversary, can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

  “Oh, you want to know how I feel? Annoyed—actually, no. Pissed off.” Ivy gritted her teeth. “I’m going to the police station tomorrow. I’m old enough now—almost twenty-six. I deserve some answers about what really happened. I’m telling you, something is not right about what happened and no one is questioning it but me.”

  Marriott gave Ivy a sympathetic nod and her eyes saddened. She stared at Ivy for a moment, her hands stacked on her lap, tapping her finger slowly.

  She then stood up and walked to her desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. Ivy watched as Marriott collected a folded sheet of paper and brought it back with her to the recliner.

  “Ivy, I have something to share with you. I don’t want to, because I’m not so sure I would consider it a great thing for you to know, but I need to,” Marriott murmured, and she had her serious voice on, which meant Marriott wasn’t fucking around. This voice was rare, and Ivy took notice.

  “What is it?” asked Ivy.

  Marriott drew in a breath. Her heart was beating harder. Her hands began to tremble. “I have the name of the person you’ve been looking for. I was instructed to give it to you.”

  The room grew absolutely still—so quiet Ivy could hear the construction happening on Palm Green Avenue, which was three blocks away.

  “What are you talking about?” Ivy sat up in the chaise, her brows dipping with confusion.

  “The person you claim has ruined your life—I have their name.”

  “What? How?”

  “I have it written on this sheet of paper,” Marriott said, raising the paper in the air, “but I want you to realize if you read this name, it may not make you feel better. I only have this name because someone came to me and told me it was what the person wanted. Perhaps their conscience has caught up to them and now they want to own up to their demons. I don’t believe you deserve to live in the dark, but I also don’t think you are ready to know this name. Unfortunately, as your therapist and confidante, I don’t want to keep information like this from you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “How did you get it?” Ivy demanded, ignoring all Marriott’s therapist mumbo jumbo talk. “Are you sure it wasn’t a cop?”

  Ivy remembered all the times she went to the police station and demanded answers. She remembered slamming her fists on the desk after the detective in charge of her case, Detective Jack Shaw, told her he couldn’t relay those facts, because the person wanted to remain anonymous and because it was considered an accident, they had the right to keep the name private.

  Apparently, this person was powerful, and the cops in her city were crooks. They could easily be bought, she figured. Or maybe they weren’t telling her because, just like Marriott, they knew it would only lead to conflict. Ivy had no lawyer to back her up, nor did she have money for one, so she always walked out of the police station furious and in tears. All she wanted was an answer—a name.

  “No. It was not a cop—at least, not that I’m aware of.”

  As if Marriot had read Ivy’s mind, she went on with, “I spoke with Detective Shaw the day after receiving this name, just to confirm the information was correct. There is a reason he never told you the person’s name; it’s because he knew you didn’t need to know this so young—not when you had so much going on mentally. I didn’t know the name before now, and I had no desire to know it. You were assigned to me for therapy and counseling, I wanted to help you, and that was all that mattered to me. During all our sessions, I’m glad you didn’t know who the person was. In cases like this, the unknown is best, and you’ve progressed so much without knowing it.”

  Marriott focused on the sheet of paper in her hand again before shifting her eyes to Ivy and saying, “You have a choice today, Ivy. You can read the name on this paper and let it consume you, or you have the option to not read this name, accept what happened all those years ago, and let it go. Realize that all things happen for a reason and that it is okay to forgive and move on with your life.” Marriott was quiet for a beat. “I’m hoping you will take the stepping stones I have given you and create a wonderful future for yourself, knowing this name or not.” Marriott placed the paper on the coffee table between her and Ivy and slid it forward, but Ivy didn’t hesitate a second.

  She’d wanted to know who the person was ever since she was fourteen. No need for modesty at this point. She deserved to know—she’d worked hard to know.

  Marriott sighed and sat back in her chair, watching Ivy unfold the paper. Her fingers were still trembling.

  The person had a name now. Lola Maxwell. She hated Lola with a passion, despite the fact that she didn’t know who she was, where she lived, or even what she looked like.

  Ivy wanted to find Lola and confront her—tell her that she was a selfish bitch who’d destroyed everything good in her life, and then she’d move on and build a future. Lola deserved that much—for someone to scream in her face and make her own up to what she did instead of being a coward.

  Ivy shot out of her chair with the paper clutched in her hand. “I need to go,” she said in a hurried voice. She walked to the chair and picked up her bag.

  “You still have forty-five minutes left, Ivy.” Marriott stood with her. “Don’t you want to complete your session for today? Talk about this?”

  “No, I don’t,” Ivy muttered on her way to the door.

  “Does knowing the name upset you?”

  “Of course, it upsets me, Marriott! Why wouldn’t it?” Ivy snapped. “But look, I’m glad you didn’t keep this information from me. Now I can let it all sink in.”

  Ivy turned for the door, but Marriott caught her by the wrist before she could flee. Ivy noticed her fingers were cold and shaking. Her eyes shifted up to Marriott’s, whose were now filled with something Ivy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Worry? Guilt?

  “I hope to still see you next Wednesday,” Marriott said with a forced smile. There was no warmth in her smile like usual. It was lukewarm at best.

  “Yeah, you will.” And she would. Ivy wanted to find this Lola person, yes, but she also knew she’d need to keep up appearances for a while—prove to Marriott that she could handle the responsibility of knowing the name of the person who’d ruined her life.

  Lola Maxwell.

  Lola Maxwell.

  Lola Maxwell.

  The name was running in circles in her mind, taking over every single one of her thoughts.

  “Okay, then.” Marriott pushed one of her braids behind her back. “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Call or email me if you need anything, and remember, if there’s ever anything you want to talk about, I’m always here. You can write to me if it’s too much to say and I’ll read it to get an understanding.” She gently squeezed Ivy’s hand. “I’m here for you, Ivy.”

  “Okay.” Ivy forced her own smile, pulled her hand out of Marriott’s, and left the office without looking back.

  * * *

  As soon as Ivy stepped into her apartment, she went for her laptop, booted it up, and did an Internet search for Lola Maxwell.

  What did Marriot
t think? That she was just going to forget about the name as soon as she got home? Of course not! She needed to know who this woman was, and she knew there was only one place she could find her immediately—a place you could find anyone if you looked hard enough. On the Internet.

  And, good Lord, this Lola woman was everywhere. She was on every major social media outlet there was. For an evil bitch, she sure made it easy to find her.

  Ivy clicked Facebook first, but she didn’t have an account set up. She’d never felt the need to have any social media accounts. She saw the way it consumed her peers when she was in college, and even in the real world as she worked, and she hated it.

  Her friend Alexa used to just sit and scroll through her phone, looking at other people, wishing she had their lives. It was strange to Ivy, to be so consumed with someone else’s life instead of your own.

  She recalled one time when a guy almost walked in front of a car on campus because he was so focused on the screen of his phone.

  Ivy never understood how humans could be so simple-minded. How did they not realize there were dangers everywhere? One wrong move could kill you. Ivy liked to be in the present moment, not worried about what a fellow classmate ate for dinner, or that someone had just gotten engaged. She knew to really pry on Lola, though, setting up an account was vital. She’d make this an exception.

  She quickly created a Facebook account with a fake last name and used a random photo of a white rose she’d found on Google Images as her profile photo. After it was all set up, she searched for Lola again and sent her a friend request. Her page was private, but her profile and cover photos were visible to the public.

  Ivy studied Lola’s profile picture.

  She was beautiful. Silky, honey-blond hair that paired well with her tawny skin, perfect white teeth, and a thin frame with curves in all the right places. She had gold hoops in her ears and was wearing all white in the photo—crisp and clean, and yet Ivy knew that pretty bitch had blood on her hands.