“Why do you think I’m here?”
The sound I make should be a laugh, but it really isn’t. “Hand to God, Siobhan, I have no earthly idea. I’d love to think you’re here because you want us to figure this out, but if I assume that, you’ll tell me you still need space, so I’m not going to assume anything.” I still have most of my glass of wine, but hers is empty, so I pour her another. “Have you decided what you want?”
She’s silent for a long time. I don’t try to prompt. I lean against the counter, sipping my wine, and let the silence settle between us. It’s familiar, that silence, has always been there just under her steady stream of chatter. It’s where substance is supposed to be. Finally she responds, her voice small and scared. “No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I miss you!” she cries.
“And we what, have a grand reunion and fall into bed, and everything’s magically fixed? Because I thought we agreed, Hollywood is full of shit.”
“How can someone so romantic be so utterly unromantic?”
“Situational response.”
She flips me off, then looks at her middle finger and sighs. “I learn bad habits from watching you and Eddison together.”
“That’s okay, Sterling does, too.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“That does seem to be our life right now.” As long as we’re not having a conversation, I go ahead and finish wiping down the kitchen, washing the cutting board and knife and setting them next to the chopsticks to dry.
“For one night, just . . . just one night, can we please keep . . .”
“Pretending?” I shake my head. “You don’t really think that will help, do you?”
“But what could it hurt?”
So much. It could hurt so very, very much, but when she comes into the kitchen and kisses me urgently, the edge of the counter biting into my hip, I don’t push her away. I’ve made worse mistakes before.
12
I’m pulled out of a half doze by the feeling of Siobhan’s fingers tracing the words on my ribs, T. S. Eliot floating against a brightly colored nebula, do i dare disturb the universe? It hurt like a bitch to work over the bone like that, but when I got it, I didn’t ever want to have to worry about it showing in the field. I love Eliot, in that slightly embarrassed and embarrassing high school kind of way, not for whole poems but for solitary lines and images, the way one line will jump out and cling to your thoughts even as stanzas and movements continue on. This line is more personal than that, the reminder that disturbing the universe can be a good thing; it’s my skin, my blood that mixed with the ink to form the only scar I chose.
Her lips brush over the question mark, and I open my eyes to find the clock nestled between the teddy bear’s legs on my nightstand. Eleven forty-five p.m. It’s better than I’ve slept in a while.
“Your nose is twitching,” Siobhan murmurs sleepily.
“My face itches.”
She gives a soft laugh and pushes at my back. “Then go wash it.”
I use the toilet and scrub my face clean of the makeup I left on longer than intended, pulling my hair back into a ponytail because sex hair doesn’t do curls any favors. It’s like hundreds of other nights; when I get back into the bedroom, Siobhan will be starfished across the bed, with only about a fifteen percent chance of her head being anywhere near the headboard, probably already asleep because she can drift off at will. But tonight isn’t the same as all those other nights. I’m not good enough at pretending to convince myself that it is.
Groaning, I grab leggings and a camisole from the dresser, then head out into the living room to grab my phones. A few text messages have come in—Eddison, Sterling, Priya, and Inara—but nothing that needed an urgent response.
“Are you coming back?”
“Yes, just getting my phones.”
She makes an indistinct sound at that, and when I head back into the bedroom to plug the phones into their chargers, she props herself up on her elbows to scowl. She’s got one leg over the sheet, so it wraps over her other leg and half her ass and leaves the rest of her bare, her hair falling wild over pale skin. In better light, I’d be able to see the freckles that track over almost all of her. I love those freckles, love tracing constellations onto her skin with my mouth. “I think you’re glued to those things,” she mutters, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the phones.
My mind was definitely engaged with the freckles.
“Why are you dressed?”
“Because I went out into the living room.”
“Why did you get dressed to move around your own house?”
“Because I always do?”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Continuing the bedtime ritual, I kneel down to check that the gun safe under the bed is secure. I pull out all three guns—two personal, one Bureau issued—and make sure they’re unloaded. My service weapon is still in hand when there’s a knock on the door. Well, not a knock so much as pounding.
“Hello! Please be there! Help!”
“Get dressed but stay here,” I snap at Siobhan, loading the gun and yanking my phones back off the cords.
“Mercedes!”
“Just do it!” Closing the bedroom door behind me, I head to the front door, with its locks and chain and peephole. There’s a girl out there, face bloodied and panicked, but I can’t see any sign of a car or another person. “My name is Mercedes,” I call through the door, and I can hear the girl take in a shuddering gasp. “I’m going to open the door, okay? But I need you to stay where you are. Can you do that?”
“I can . . . I can do that. I can do that.”
“Okay. You’ll hear the locks disengage, okay? I’m not leaving.” I shove the phones into the band of my leggings and throw the locks one-handed. When the door opens, she lurches forward, then restrains herself, wringing her hands in front of her.
She’s early teens, not much older than Sarah, I think, with glasses sitting crookedly on her nose. There’s blood on her face and both arms, and running down the front of her long tank top, which is the only thing she has on over underwear. She’s got bruises, too, down her arms and across the visible parts of her chest. There’s what looks to be a fresh cigarette burn on her collarbone.
There are no cars besides mine and Siobhan’s in the drive or parked at the curb, no sign of one idling or driving away, no trace of another person around the house. “Sweetheart, how did you get here?”
“A lady,” she says with a gulp.
“Is she still here?”
“N-n-no. We turned around and she told me to get out and walk back here from down the street. I heard her drive away.”
Cógeme. Wait. The camera on the mailbox should have gotten something. Please let it have gotten something. “Okay, sweetheart. That’s okay.” I engage the safety and gingerly tuck the gun into the back of my leggings, and I will never understand people who think that’s a great place to keep a firearm. Reaching out slowly, making sure she can see the movement, I touch her hand. “Why don’t you sit down, mija? What’s your name?”
“Emilia,” she sniffles. “Emilia Anders.”
“Emilia, are you hurt?”
She nods slowly. “My head.”
“Can I look?”
Her nod comes even more reluctantly this time, but it comes. I help her onto the porch swing, where the light is best, and carefully, so gently, follow the blood trail up her face to her temple. Just past her hairline, a gash bleeds sluggishly over a swelling, purpling goose egg. “How old are you, Emilia?” I ask to keep her talking.
“Almost fourteen.”
“Almost? When is your birthday?”
“Not until September,” she admits, her hands curling into fists on her thighs. “But it sounds better than thirteen.”
“I remember those days. I’m going to straighten your glasses, okay? And bring them down your nose a little so I can see your eyes better.”