No, he hasn’t. But there have been so many other secrets. “Did it start as a game?” I ask. “Did you tie her up, too?” I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. “Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?” The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. “Was it—was it an accident?”
His face is no longer blank. Now it’s dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. “I did not kill Sara Padgett.”
I manage to look him straight in the eye. “I’ve got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did.”
His face goes white. It’s true. Oh, dear God, until that moment, I don’t think I really believed that it was true.
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Certainly not from you,” I say. “I guess that’s not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.”
“How?” he repeats.
“I overheard some of your phone conversation,” I snap. I leave out the rest.
He shoves his fingers through his hair. “Nikki—”
I hold up my hand. “No,” I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the ankle bracelet. I take a deep breath and then I drop it onto the bed.
I pause only long enough to look at the raw, unfinished painting. I feel a lump in my throat. Then I turn and hurry down the stairs.
Damien doesn’t come after me.
I’m not sure how I get through the next two days. They are a haze of ice cream, classic movies, and really depressing country songs. Twice, Jamie makes me go sit by the pool, saying that the vitamin D will be good for me. But it doesn’t feel good. Nothing feels good.
My sleep schedule is all screwed up, and I don’t worry about fixing it, because I don’t need to get up early since I don’t have a job. I called Bruce from the car after leaving Damien’s house and told him I couldn’t accept the job. I need to cut all my ties with Damien Stark because if I don’t, I know I’ll get reeled back in. I can feel the part of me that’s already tugging in that direction, I miss him so terribly.
My nights are turning into days and vice versa and I’m learning all sorts of things about products that are sold only by infomercial. That’s why I know neither what day it is nor what time it is when I’m awakened from a cat nap on the couch by a determined knock at the door. I yell for Jamie to answer it, but of course she’s not home. She’s had two more auditions and a callback, and while I’m thrilled for her, I’m also feeling lost and lonely.
The pounding continues. I groan and sit up.
Once the blood starts flowing I wonder who could be that persistent. Damien? I doubt it. I haven’t heard a word from him. Not to offer me explanations, or even to check on me.
Because you made the right decision. You really were just chattel. He’s moved on.
Well, fuck. Now I feel like shit all over again.
The pounding ramps up. “All right! I’m coming! Hang on!”
I stand up and blink. I can feel that my face is puffy and I know that my unwashed hair is a mess. I’m wearing the same ripped flannel pajama pants I’ve been wearing for two days, and my tank top has coffee spilled on it.
I am pathetic, and I really couldn’t care less.
I pad to the door in my fluffy socks, careful not to trip over Lady Meow-Meow, who seems thrilled to see signs of life in me.
I don’t usually bother, but I take the trouble to look through the peephole to make certain it’s not Damien about to see me like this.
It’s not.
It’s worse.
It’s my mother.
28
“Mother,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
She brushes past me, then looks critically around the room, her nose wrinkling. After a moment, she walks to the dining table, then uses the tips of her fingers to pull out the chair. She takes a tissue from her purse, brushes the seat, and sits. She folds her hands in front of her on the table and keeps her back straight.
I follow and flop down in the chair opposite. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my fist.
My mother smiles at me. The same fake smile she reserves for cashiers and gas station attendants.