Funny thing about Xanax: you come down real slow. It’s like falling through frozen air; you have to chip away at everything just to function, and then suddenly you hit the ground with a sharp thud and it’s all over. It seems to take ten minutes to pull open the door.
“Oh God.” Mum stands in the doorway, her hands swiftly falling from her hips to her sides. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” I manage. I showered, at least. That’s an achievement, under the circumstances.
Mum hurries in, as if she’s afraid to miss her chance before I slam the door. “You’re not looking after yourself. I’m worried.”
“I’m fine.” My voice is a wavering croak. I’m so not fine, and it’s not even funny. I follow Mum into my kitchen diner, embarrassed at the stack of unwashed coffee mugs and half-eaten chocolate bars dotted around the place.
“You’re not fine. Look at you.”
“It’s nearly nine, Mum. I’m hardly going anywhere.”
“You’re already wearing your coat.” She drags suspicious eyes up and down my outfit.
For a second, I’m terrified she can see the fresh wounds underneath, or the bulge of the hand gun shoved into my pocket.
“I have to go talk to Aeron,” I say as casually as possible. “He just left the station…they’ve been questioning him all day.”
Mum pulls my fridge open and yanks out a half-finished bottle of white wine. Then she swipes two glasses off the draining board and fills them in shaking glugs.
“Just make yourself at home,” I mutter.
“You haven’t been returning my calls.” She ignores my remark and puts the wine bottle into the recycling bin. “You haven’t been returning my emails. I learned that you sold your goddamn company on Facebook. And then I learned who you sold it to.” She twists to stare at me, and then downs half her wine. Her throat bobs with the strain of it. “I buy gossip magazines and they’re suddenly full of pictures of my daughter on the arm of that—that monster—!”
Something inside me baulks, wavers…and snaps. “He’s not…he’s…”
He is a monster.
I know that.
How stupid does she think I am?
“It’s not what you think,” I finish.
“But it is! Look at you, Leo, he’s all over you! You’re fading away.” Her voice cracks, and her eyes turn glassy with furious tears. “How could you? What kind of ridiculous game is this?”
“It’s not a game. Mum, he doesn’t know…he doesn’t know who I am!”
“Don’t be so obtuse. Of course he knows.”
“No, he doesn’t. I can’t explain it, I—” It doesn’t matter how I phrase this; it sounds unhinged because that’s exactly what it is. “He has feelings for me.”
Mum takes another huge swig of wine, then sags back against the kitchen unit. “Can you even hear yourself? He’s a murderer.”
“I know.” My breath comes in sharp bursts. “He’s even worse than I thought he’d be.” And yet better. Strangely, dangerously better. Sometimes, cages come with pumpkin carriages and glass slippers, and you don’t remember their shadowy origins until the bars clink closed and you’re surrounded by rats instead of men.
“And what happens when he finds out who you are? What you know? Then, what?”
The gun feels heavy in my pocket. Powerful. Safe. If I could get away with it, I’d give it a quick squeeze, like a lover.
“You going to sail off into the sunset and have lots of little killer babies? Is that what you want?” she spits. Each word is like a bullet.
Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. My jaw trembles. “No.”
“Your father called. He’s excited for you.” Her upper lip curls in scorn.
“He sent me flowers.” A glorious bunch of roses and peonies that take pride of place on my office window ledge.
“Well bra-fucking-vo for him.” She hunches. Her keening sob cuts through me like a siren. “He can’t see his little girl breaking into pieces while she plays house with a killer.”