Chapter Thirteen
Such a simple thing, a kiss.
Yet in the state of hypersensitivity brought on by fear, in which she was as painfully aware of her body and its surroundings as a creature comprised solely of raw skin and nerve endings, a kiss seemed like a very large price to pay.
Extortionate.
Would a man, even an obsessed man, go to such lengths for a mere kiss? Even Val in all her childlike naivete couldn't bring herself to believe this, however much she wanted to.
“Well?”
Her breathing sounded too loud. She had never been more aware of her own fragile mortality. You've kissed him before, she reminded herself. Lots of times. He's not any different.
But she was. And now she knew his most intimate thoughts and had found, to her horror, that her romantic idealization of him as the tragically misunderstood artist was just that: an ideal, now shattered, with reality gleaming through like sharp slices of mirror reflecting light. He was ruthless, cold, and he wanted her to be like one of the lifeless butterflies in the collection behind his glass cabinet.
An inanimate plaything.
A possession.
A prisoner.
“I'm waiting,” he said, regarding her through half-shut eyes.
She had come into the garden expecting summer roses and had instead been caught in a bank of twisted, thorny frost-iced vines.
“Just one kiss?” she confirmed, breathing out a little when he nodded. “And you'll let me go?”
“Quite.”
Val's arms shook. She leaned in and pecked him feebly on the mouth. His lips still tasted like coffee. “You're not trying.”
And that was when she understood: she was intended to perform the work herself.
An image of a butterfly in a killing jar popped into Val's head, fragile wings straining against the cloyingly sweet miasma coating the delicate membranes with a thin layer of poisonous crystals. Like rime. Or frosted sugar. Not all poison was bitter — some of the deadliest poisons in the world tasted sweet. They were that much more dangerous because of it.
Don't think about that. Turning this situation into a carnival of horrors wasn't going to help. She closed her eyes and covered his mouth with hers. He remained still as a statue, though when she nudged at his closed lips with her tongue he opened his mouth.
She wrote her prayers for salvation in his mouth, with the tip of her tongue, and he made a low sound in the back of his throat that did not necessarily sound like displeasure, though it didn't sound pleased, either. He had yet to reciprocate, and the thought that he might prolong this infinitely until he deemed himself completely satisfied shot into her head.
Evil bastard. She hated him, for the first time. Well and truly hated him. He had her trapped, and he had carefully planned each and every bar of the prison she now found herself in. She channeled that anger, molding herself against him and holding onto his neck to steady herself wishing in her heart of hearts that she was strangling him instead.
His arms wrapped around her waist automatically and his mouth began, at length, to move against hers. Vertigo wrapped around her brain in thick, shimmering mist as he rolled over so that she was on top, dizzied from the fear, the danger, his effects on her body.
Especially his effects on her body.
“That was nice.”
“It was?”
“Very.” His hands slid onto the shallow indent of her waist with easy familiarity. “But where do you think you're going?” he inquired, as she swung an unsteady leg over the side of the bed.
“You said I could — ”
“I don't believe I you permission to leave,” he said, and his grip tightened in emphasis. He twisted his hips then, knocking her off-balance. She found herself straddling him. “If you recall, I said your efforts on this occasion had to be superior to the last.”
“I kissed you,” she said, “Just like you wanted.”
“Your technique is flawless but last time you looked considerably more appealing. If I hadn't known I was going to have to give you back ….” His eyes darkened and he shook his head. “Suffice it to say that it will be a difficult act to follow.”
“You're not going to let me go, are you?” Her voice was hoarse, even to her own ears. “How long to you intend to keep me here? And don't lie to me!” Val knocked his hand away from her when he tried to touch her, blinking back tears. “You're so sick, I don't even want to look at you, let alone kiss you — all those things you —” Drew, she had been about to say. But then she remembered, he didn't know she'd seen his sketchbook. “ — Said,” she finished weakly.
“You're welcome to try again. Or try things my way.”
A chill filled her. She gritted her teeth, trying to block out the images that rushed at her, in charcoal and watercolor, tinged with passion and violence. “Once more,” she choked.
“We'll see,” he said mildly.
And that decided it. She leaned in again, and his lips parted in anticipation — and she headbutted him. Hard. He let out a roar, like a wounded bull, but his grip on her waist loosened. She must have surprised him; she had surprised herself. Val scrambled off him and ran, clutching her own throbbing head. She heard him clambering after her.
Something hard jagged into her shoulder. It was the wooden banister. She remembered the knife with the broken handle and produced the little blade just as he was upon her.
“She has claws.”
“Stay back.”
“I wonder, what else does she have?”
“Stay back,” Val repeated, accompanying the command with a jab.
His hand shot out, serpent-quick, to deliver a sharp undercut to her wrist that made her drop the blade in a spasm of pain. She started to bend to retrieve it from the floor but Gavin kicked it aside as he took a step forward, and Val had to veer backwards to avoid his grab for her.
Her weight shifted past her waist, centering in her upper body. She lost her balance. The world spun and she screamed hoarsely as she felt herself falling over the balcony head-first. Somehow, she managed to grab the rails. The carved blocks of wood cut into her sweaty palms but at least it kept her from going over.
Val glanced over her shoulder to get a look at the drop, then let the rest of her body fall over as she jumped the last five feet. She hit the floor with enough force to make her teeth rattle around inside her skull. It occurred to her, as she ran in the direction of the door, that she had no idea where to run — Gavin had driven her over here, and her house was too far to walk.
And I left my purse in his house. With my phone —
Escape. She had to focus on escape. She could deal with the phone later. If she didn't escape, there wouldn't be a later.
She hurled herself against the door with a desperation she hadn't known she possessed. It would not open — and it took a moment for the panicking animal her brain had become to understand that the deadbolt was fastened.
His fingers curled around her wrist as tightly as a handcuff. “I'm not letting you leave.”
No, Val thought, with real terror. She cocked back her arm and elbowed him somewhere soft enough to elicit a grunt of pain. He released her. She hooked her foot around his leg and jerked. He fell, though he had the reflexes to throw out his arms to break his fall. She unfastened the deadbolt with fingers that felt as ineffective as rubber as he started to get back up.
Come on. Come on.
It slid free with a loud snap. She twisted the doorknob, hard, and slipped outside. She grabbed the knob on the other side and pulled, trying to shut the front door on him. Behind the oak panel, she heard a chuckle — he was laughing at her, even now, as if her attempts to escape were nothing more than the amusing antics of a child.
She was losing their tug-of-war with the door, so she gave in and rammed her shoulder against it, and her impact, combined with the force of his own momentum, sent him falling back with a thud that shook the windows in their panes.
Val turned and headed for the first house she saw with the porch lights on, and didn't dare look over her shoulder. Please be home. She knocked on the door, trying to contain herself because she knew if she looked too crazy nobody would come. Please, please answer.
Through the windows, Val could see the bluish flickers of a TV coming from the depths of the house. An older woman came to the door. She was holding a cordless phone in her hand and looked quite cross, though that quickly dissolved as she took in the scene awaiting her.
“Oh my goodness,” the woman said, blinking rapidly. “Elinor, I'm going to have to call you back. There's a young girl and — are you all right?” During this entire exchange, the woman kept her hand on the phone, fingers poised over the bottommost digit, ready to use it for a distress call or a weapon, however the situation required.
Wise, Val thought, in a burst of self-pity she hadn't had the time to indulge in. Wiser than me.
She opened her mouth to say — what, exactly, she wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Whatever words she thought to utter were immediately drowned in a flood of tears.
That seemed to decide it for the woman and she hesitated only briefly before stepping aside to allow Val entry. The room was lit with soft orange light and spilling with lace trimmings. She led Val into a parlor that smelled strongly of peppermint and mothballs.
A shiver rolled down Val's spine as she watched the woman bolt all three locks.
“Dear?” the woman said, turning around. “What happened? Are you hurt? Did someone attack you?” Her face furrowed, giving her the appearance of a withered peach. “You're not involved in anything criminal, are you? Because if you are, I'll have to mention that when I call the police.”
Val made a very small sound that she didn't recognize as her own.
“What was that? Speak up, dear, my hearing isn't so good. Should I call the police now?”
“Please — ” Val wet her cracked lips, chapped from sticky kisses stolen in the dark “I … I want my mom.”
Poor thing, the woman thought — and then paused. That really was such a terrible phrase, as if tragedy rendered someone inanimate and helpless, worthy of pity in only the most abstract and impersonal sense. She placed a hand on the girl's trembling back, and she flinched.
“Would you like a peppermint candy?”
Val shook her head, eying the congealed mass of sweets in the glass jar that the woman was proffering. She wanted to vomit. Oh, god, she kept thinking, Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
The woman set the jar back down on the doily-covered table. “When you can,” she said, enunciating each word, “You may use the cordless. I'll put it right here.”
She set it on the pillow nearest to Val, who stared at it like she'd never seen one before.
“As soon as your mother comes — well, we'll figure that out, then, won't we?” Val did not answer, and the woman nodded decisively to herself. “Good. I think I'll put some tea on. Would you like some tea, dear? It might help.”
They don't make tea for what he's done to me.
The woman introduced herself to Val's mother as Beatrice Cooper.
“Here's my number,” she said, handing over a yellowed business card, “In case you need me to give testimony or anything like that — though I'm retired now, the number's the same.” Mrs. Cooper paused. “Your daughter was running away from someone who clearly wanted to hurt her. It would be my pleasure to put him where people like him belong.”
“I can't thank you enough,” said Mrs. Kimble. “It was so kind of you — I mean, thank God — ”
“I'm just doing my civic duty,” Mrs. Cooper said complacently.
Val's mother tried to write her a check but Mrs. Cooper would hear nothing of it.
“Making sure he gets caught will be reward enough.”
He won't get caught, thought Val. I will.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Mrs. Kimble had driven to Ms. Cooper's house with the intention of threatening her daughter with every punishment under the sun, and then a good deal that weren't. Seeing the teary, trembling ball her daughter had curled into on that woman's couch swiftly changed her mind. She bought Val a Neapolitan milkshake instead. It had been her go-to method when Val was a child, and it was the only thing that came to mind now. Val sipped the drink and sniffled, but said nothing.
Worst-case scenarios flooded through Mrs. Kimble's head. Rather wanting to cry herself, she wrapped Val up in a quilt and installed her on the sofa. Then she dampened a paper towel and began cleaning her daughter's face, her heart breaking when Val flinched at the contact. “Baby,” she whispered. “Please. Please tell me what's wrong.”
It was as if Val shattered into a thousand words — mute only moments before, she now couldn't stop talking. Even if she wanted to. Especially if she wanted to.
“I'm scared,” Val said, once she'd finished.
“We have to call the police.”
A swift rush of movement from the sofa. “No!” Val was in her path in an instant, blocking her way to the phone. Her eyes were wide, still wild with terror. “You can't. No police!”
“But Val, honey, we have to — ”
“No, we don't!”
“Val, don't be ridiculous. Of course we do. What that boy did to you, he deserves to be locked up. Now get out of the way — ”
“No!”
Mrs. Kimble stared at this savage creature her daughter had become. “Val, you can't want to defend him,” she said gently, “what he did to you was — ”
“I'm not. I'm not defending him. But don't call the police.”
Val's mother was torn. “Why on earth not?”
“Because I don't want anyone to know,” she whispered.
No, Mrs. Kimble realized, with a sinking feeling in her heart. They would want to put her on the stand, and that horrible boy and his lawyers would tear into her like a pack of wolves, not to mention the news reports, the articles, the gossip. And what if, in spite of her testimony, he went free? All that pain and humiliation would be for nothing.
All at once, she understood.
“No police,” she agreed quietly, and Val deflated in her mother's arms. “Why don't you take a nice hot bath? Then change into some pajamas and see if you can get some sleep.”
Val nodded, and slunk upstairs.
My poor sweet little baby. Who in their right mind would want to hurt her?
And then Mrs. Kimble realized she had answered her own question.