He is evil personified.
Anger burns in my belly and my legs find strength. I push to my feet, my legs no longer tangled, but hands and fingers are tangling in the dress—grabbing at it, struggling as I reach for the zipper, fighting with the silk until I’ve kicked away the offending garment, thrown it across the room. Did he choose it and the color to represent blood? My bra and panties are red, too—my own sickening choice—as if he guided me to the sinful place of blood and lust. As silly as it might seem to another, I can’t bear any of it touching my skin, and I wrestle with my garments all over again, tossing them all to the floor. I stand there, naked in my sin by association, hugging myself, trying to disassociate myself from all things Adam, all things sinful and evil.
I’m shivering when my mind starts thinking about the cameras, so many cameras that might have captured my image on this sultry, sordid night. Everywhere, every place has a camera nowadays. They are literally as common as cellphones. Me in that dress equals bad news. I rush upstairs and pull on a sweatsuit and sneakers, with a baseball cap over my hair. I hurry downstairs and shove all the clothes in a grocery-store bag. I’m now on the floor, staring at the bag as if it carries the plague. It has to go. But go where?
An idea hits me, and it’s not long before that bag is in my oversize purse, and I’m walking down the street. Act normal, I tell myself. He’ll be following me, watching me, and so I go to a place I go often. In this case Jessie’s Diner, a joint only a few blocks from my loft. I find my favorite table and force myself to smile at Diana, the fiftysomething waitress, who I swear lives at this place the way I do the library.
“No hot date tonight, hon?”
“I’ve had it with dating for a while. Me, books, and my favorite beef potpie will do me right.”
“You read too many romance novels,” she accuses. “You expect too much of men.”
Or, I think, too little. Adam overperformed. But what I say is, “Guilty as charged, I’m sure. I’m craving one of those famous potpies.”
“I’ll get that pie coming. Diet Sprite?”
“You know me so well.”
She walks away, and I exhale air I didn’t even know I’d been holding, my fingers fiddling with a knife on the table, eyes watching the door, expecting Adam to enter, but he never shows up. I burn to call Jess. She will know what to do, but my eyes squeeze shut with the image of blood spurting from Kevin’s throat.
“Surprise.”
I blink my eyes open to find the pie sitting in front of me, the crust flaky, the gravy bubbling around the edges.
“Your eyes were shut, so I said surprise!” Diana teases. “I hope you were thinking of good things. Need anything else?”
Help, I think. “No, thank you,” I say, noting the Diet Sprite is already on the table.
I lift my fork and jab at the crust, the warm brown gravy pouring, but all I see is the red of blood dripping from Kevin’s throat. Suddenly I’m imagining Adam walking into the diner. Imagining him approaching me, smiling as if all is well. Then me standing up and waiting until he’s right in front of me before I start stabbing him with the fork, over and over and over. No. No. I’d use the knife. I’d kill him with the knife. And I’d enjoy it. I’d enjoy every last second of him bleeding out. I swallow hard with the realization that both knife and fork are in my hands. My grip softens and releases, allowing each to plop to the tabletop, and I pull my hands to my lap. I wonder if this is part of the game Adam mentioned. Him finding a way to turn my fantasies into murders, murders I commit. But I will never, ever be that person.
I’ve been at the table for about thirty minutes when I eye the clock, aware closing cleanup is approaching. I grab my purse and head into the bathroom. My heart is pumping with fierceness, and once the door is locked, I give myself only a moment to breathe. I need to move fast. I pull the lid off the trash can, dig in the nastiness inside, and bury the dress in the bottom of it all, beneath all kinds of stinky mess. Once I wash up, I climb on the toilet, move a ceiling tile, and stick the cards and notes Adam left me there, hidden, for only my eyes. For reasons I can’t explain, I have second thoughts. I retrieve the cards again and stick them back inside my purse.
I return the ceiling tile to its proper position, climb down from the toilet, and wipe the footmarks from the seat.
I scrub up again and head out of the ladies’ room, sit down at my table, and, with a plan in mind, not only finish my potpie but order a slice of peach to go.
Once I’m outside walking, there’s something missing. I don’t feel that tingling sensation of being followed. My cellphone doesn’t ring. But then I guess Adam has his hands full. He’s dealing with Kevin’s dead body.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.
—Mother Teresa
The cards and notes burn holes in my purse, the words on them, especially those with compliments that read as sweet, instead bear bloody marks with a lingering impact. My steps are sure, though, my decision about where to hide them, how to keep them close, to protect myself, to show Adam’s intent should I need to do so, solid. Aware, though, of everyone who passes me, of every sensation of eyes on me, I push myself to hurry, hurry, and do what I must do. Hurry and just get back home.
Once I arrive at the loft, I unlock the doors and quickly enter the building, locking up behind me. I breathe out, reveling in the facade of my safe place. I only allow myself a few moments to drink in this feeling before I launch into action again. I turn to the bookstore, unlock the door, flip on the light, and enter. Thankfully the owners are old school and don’t believe in cameras.
“Who wants to steal books?” Old Lady Linda, the wife of the owner, once told me when I asked, which sums up why I almost bought this place. The family doesn’t appreciate the value of a good book. Not one bit.
Once I’m sealed inside, I rush to the back storage room and find a ladder. I hurry up the steps, and just as I had in the diner, I open a ceiling panel, where I place the cards. It’s not the best location, but it’s the safest for now. Adam won’t find them. The police won’t find them. I hope. And they are close, and I just feel like I need them to be close. I climb down, move the ladder to another section of the books, and dust off my hands. Glancing at my watch, it’s now almost midnight. I don’t even know how that happened, but it’s way past time for me to go to my loft and figure out what to do next.
Without haste, I walk through the store, flip out the lights, and step into the main foyer, locking the store. I rotate and gasp as I realize I’m facing Ben, as in he’s toe-to-toe with me, the scent of his musky cologne suffocating that of the leather and wear of bound books.
“What did you just do?” he demands.
“Considering I have a key and access to the store as I wish, the question is what are you doing here?” I manage to snap back, irritated at the tremble in my voice that no doubt complements the overabundance of adrenaline surging through my body at present.
“What I always do. Clean up.”
My brow furrows. “You don’t clean on Saturday night.”
“And yet here I am,” he says dryly. “And here you are.”
Yes, I think, yes, we are, and that sits about as easy as an egg teetering on the edge of an uneven counter, and about as messy as when it falls hard and cracks with nasty results. “Not anymore,” I say. “I’m leaving.”