by Layne Deemer
She doesn’t look convinced, but thankfully she doesn’t press the issue. “Why don’t you stop at your apartment to feed George and grab some more clothes and then meet me back at mine? We can order some takeout and watch a movie.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. She lasts all of ten seconds before she covers her mouth as she’s overcome by a fit of giggles. I chuckle and hug her body to mine. She’s so cute when she’s trying to be seductive.
My bedroom is still in disarray from the frantic packing yesterday. Underwear and T-shirts lie in haphazard heaps on the floor and bedspread. Sarah would surely have something to say about the state of my room.
I grab onto the rusty handle on the passenger side door of my little gray Honda and give it a tug. When it screeches open, a McDonald’s bag full of trash and an empty soda cup tumble out onto the side of the road. Sarah backs away and crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrow into slits as she regards the disastrous state of the inside of my car. “I hope you don’t expect me to sit on that seat, Owen.” Her voice is laced with disgust. I give the top of my head a scratch. “Sorry, I guess it’s a little messy.”
She snorts. “A little messy? Um, yeah, you could say that!”
I reach in and collect the trash from the floor and the seat of the car and toss it onto the floor in the back seat. I jump in place and fling open my hands toward the door. “Ta da! As good as new!” She shakes her head.
“You’re hopeless.” She turns on her heels and strolls back to her house. Calling back over her shoulder, she yells, “Well, come on! We’re taking my car.”
I take a few minutes to clean up the mess, reaching for the clothing and piling it all on top of my bed to be folded. When I grab a sock from the pile, I am not at all surprised by the crinkling sound I hear inside. Of course, there’s another note.
On an exasperated sigh I say out loud to no one, “Enough already, Sarah.” I wish she’d stop playing games and just show herself once and for all so that I can put all of this behind me and move on with my life.
Unfolding the familiar orange paper feels like detonating a bomb. Each new note has been more ominous than the last, and I find myself holding my breath as I peel back the folds and smooth out the little square on the leg of my pants.
You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.
I feel the skin on my forehead tighten as my eyebrows pull down in a severe V. During the entire course of these notes, I’ve only had two suspects—Lydia and Sarah. I’ve all but ruled Lydia out, which leaves Sarah as the most likely culprit. The handwriting matches and the tone of the messages would make sense coming from her. Of course, there’s the tiny little insignificant detail of her being dead, but lately, I seem to keep running into her and she looks pretty alive to me.
This new note has me questioning everything I thought I knew, and I feel like I’m no closer to solving the puzzle than I was before. Whoever has been leaving these messages has access to where I work and where I live.
If it isn’t Lydia or Sarah, then who?
48
When I arrive at Lydia’s apartment, I notice the door is slightly open. A rush of concern floods my body. With careful ease, I give the door a soft push and crane my neck to peer inside before I enter. I spot Lydia by the sink in her kitchen and let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She’s traded the jeans and cardigan that she wore to work for a pair of black leggings and a striped tank top. Music blares from the wireless speaker that’s perched on the counter. I stand back and admire the view as she shimmies around her kitchen swaying her hips to “Head Over Heels” by Tears for Fears.
She turns around and is stunned when she spots me. With her hands on her hips, she knits her eyebrows in mock annoyance and scolds me. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to lurk in doorways?” She crooks her finger and motions for me to come in. I step inside and let the strap of my bag slide off my shoulder and down my arm. I push her door shut and lock it for good measure.
I was feeling a mixture of confusion and doubt on my way here, but now as I stand in front of her, all I feel is longing.
I stalk toward her and watch as her eyes come alive with desire. She reaches out and fists my shirt, pulling me into her. Her arms drape over my shoulders and my hands glide around her waist as we move with the music. It’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when we weren’t touching each other this way—like we could never be sated no matter how hard we try.
The song ends and without a word, Lydia takes my hand and guides me to her bedroom. I have a passing thought that she’s trying to distract me from something, but I push it away as I let her lead the way.
Lydia and I lie on our sides facing each other. We’re sharing her pillow, putting ourselves in close proximity to one another. I feel open and stripped bare as her eyes roam over me. I study the contours of her face, the hollows of her cheekbones, the valley of her cupid’s bow. I’ve never seen her equal.
She reaches her arms above her head into a stretch and settles into the mattress, lifting her leg out from underneath the sheet and draping it across me. The inside of her ankle catches my eye and I’m reminded of the advice Gabe gave me. Ask her about her tattoo.
The question lingers on the tip of my tongue. I need to keep my tone casual and be careful not to sound accusatory. I feel like I’m standing on the precipice of an immense cliff, and my ability to remain at the top all depends on the way these words leave my mouth.
I reach down and run my hand along her leg, stopping just above her ankle bone. Sliding my hand to the underside of her ankle, I swipe my index finger across the key tattoo. My lips curve into a smile that can be heard when I speak. “Tell me about this.” I tap my finger on the spot for emphasis.
Her eyes glaze over as she stares up at the ceiling. Her response is barely audible. “Try another key,” she says on a breathy whisper. The wistful expression on her face makes me wonder if she knows she’s spoken out loud.
A few seconds pass as I wait for her to elaborate. She gives her head a slight shake as if to clear a memory and turns her head to face me. When her eyes find mine, they are practically sparkling as she recalls what the permanent mark on her skin means to her. “Try another key.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask her.
She lets out a small chuckle. “It’s what my dad always told me when I couldn’t figure something out. No matter what size the problem was—something as simple as a math problem on a homework assignment or more monumental like when I was stuck deciding between majors in college—he was convinced there was always a solution.” She smiles at the memory. “If I was struggling, he’d take my hand”—she takes my hand in hers and threads our fingers together—“and he’d say, ‘Try another key, kiddo. That one doesn’t fit.’ He raised me to believe that there was an answer to every problem I encountered, and he encouraged me to never settle until I figured it out.”
I sit up slowly and leave our hands linked as I lean over bringing my face near her ankle to get a closer look. I’ve never seen it up close before, and I notice the words Non deficere inked in tiny block print above the gothic style key.
“Is this Latin?”
“Wow, Owen, I’m impressed! Non deficere is Latin for ‘Never give up.’”
She offers no other explanation, and I’m left wondering why Gabe wanted me to ask about her tattoo in the first place. It sounds like nothing more than a sweet homage to her father. Was I supposed to feel threatened by the words “never give up”? Because I don’t. If anything, I’m feeling even more in awe of the girl beside me than I was before.
Gabe’s story was little more than a deflection from his own guilt, and now that I know the truth, I want nothing more than to devour Lydia whole. I cup her chin and swipe my thumb across her bottom lip before capturing it with my mouth. Desire courses through my veins, but I ignore the impulse to lose control. I’m going to take this slow and savor her.
49
The sky outside Ly
dia’s window turns purple as the sun fades from view. It’s nearly seven o’clock and we haven’t moved from the bed. My stomach growls out a plea for dinner, and Lydia laughs as she places her hand above my bellybutton. “Oh, you poor thing! We need to get some food in you stat.”
She sits up on the mattress letting her legs dangle off the sides as she reaches for her tank top lying on the ground. I keep my eyes fixed on her back as she slides her arms inside her shirt, gliding the thin material over herself. I’ve never thought of the spine as sexy before, but Lydia’s, with all of its ridges and curves, is a masterpiece. If I’m honest, she could drive me wild with a raise of her eyebrow. Every inch of her is perfection.
She peeks at me from over her left shoulder and gives me a wink before she stands and moves to the doorway. “I need a bathroom break and then we’ll order some food.”
I give her a grateful smile and remain wrapped in the blankets of her bed. I inhale deeply and take in the aroma that is distinctly Lydia. The sheets feel like an embrace, and despite the pleas from my stomach, I’m not ready to leave them just yet.
My bare shoulders meet the cool chocolate brown wood of the headboard as I lean back and allow my eyes to take inventory of my surroundings. Lydia’s room is the perfect reflection of her. Everything is light and airy with pale gray walls and soft yellow sheer curtains framing the window. On the wall opposite the bed, there’s a collection of four prints. Each one is done in pastel watercolor and depicts a guitar at various angles. The light tan of the body bleeds into the richness of the pickguard. The strings are stark against the neck of the instrument and bursts of deep blues, reds, and purples seem to explode behind the subject of each painting. Lydia’s love for music is so apparent in everything she does. It’s always playing in the background or alive in her absent-minded humming.
My eyes fall on the closed bifold doors that lead into a closet. Thoughts of Gabe enter my mind, and I find myself imagining a shrine devoted to him just behind the doors. It’s a ridiculous idea and I don’t really believe it, but I still find myself leaving the comfort of Lydia’s bed to take a closer look. When my feet connect with the fuzzy fibers of the carpet, I stop moving for a moment and listen for Lydia. The bathroom door is closed, but I can hear the telltale sound of drawers being opened. I should have a few more minutes before she emerges.
I tiptoe across the floor. I’m not sure why since my bare feet wouldn’t make much sound against the thick carpeting, but I can’t help myself. The knobs are smooth beneath my hands as I take hold of each one. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid, I waste no time sliding both doors open in one fluid motion.
Dresses on hangers packed tightly against flowy tops and color-coordinated cardigans greet me from the closet rod inside. Neat rows of sandals, flats, sneakers, and a few heels line the floor beneath the clothing. A shelf above the rack is mostly empty apart from a few shoeboxes and a suitcase. There are no pictures, no candles, no voodoo dolls. I shake my head and silently chuckle. Apparently, I’ve seen way too many Lifetime movies.
I’m still smiling as I search the room for my boxer briefs and find them draped across the lampshade. Heat rises up the back of my neck as I recall the frenzy that took place a few hours ago. Try as I might, I can’t seem to locate the T-shirt I was wearing. If I close my eyes, I can still feel Lydia’s fingers as she gripped the hem of my shirt and slid it up my body. Her hands grazed the tops of my shoulders as she silently ordered my arms above my head. The shirt flew from her hands with such ease. It could be anywhere in the room.
I scan the floor, and a flash of white peeking out from under the bed catches my eye. My shirt. With a smirk, I bend down and reach my hand under the bed to retrieve it. As I grasp the edge of the fabric, my finger makes contact with something hard. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean down to get a closer look.
The underside of Lydia’s bed is a black abyss making it impossible to see anything. Reaching my arm farther, I fish my hand around trying to locate the source of my intrigue. My hand bumps against it again and I make a fist around the little cube, drawing it out from under the bed.
The second I unclench my fist, my ears stop working and my legs buckle. No. This can’t be happening. Resting on the palm of my hand is a tiny security camera identical to the one I used to have outside my apartment building. That is, until someone knocked it down and took it.
50
If my actions in the past prove anything, in times of fight or flight, flight always wins. I burst through the door of my apartment and bend in half as I try to catch my breath. Once I found the security camera stashed under Lydia’s bed, my only thought was how fast could I get away. I yelled to Lydia that I needed to check on George and would text her later. I heard the confusion in her voice as she called out to me, but I didn’t wait around to answer.
I’m still gripping the camera in my hand. I deposit it on the counter and lean in close to examine it. I push it around with my finger and look at it from all angles. It looks exactly like the ones Lydia and I installed above our doors.
Maybe there’s a logical explanation for all of this. I suppose this camera could’ve been a spare, but it doesn’t seem very likely. It’s impossible to know if it’s the same one that was taken, but the coincidence has me rattled. I could confront Lydia, but experience has shown how skillfully she lies when backed into a corner.
An idea hits me. If Lydia won’t tell me the truth, maybe I can make her show it. I decide to reinstall the camera above my door and see if she notices. Her reaction will tell me everything I need to know.
Once I have the camera mounted in the bracket, I shoot Lydia a text letting her know that I have a few things to take care of here in my apartment and I’ll see her in the morning. I keep my words short and hope she’ll take the bait.
I stare at the screen of my phone and watch as the text bubble appears, disappears, and then reappears a few times. I envision a confused Lydia trying to put her thoughts into words. The bubble disappears a final time, and then I wait.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. The corners of my mouth spread into a Cheshire cat grin as I look over at George. He’s batting at a thread sticking out of the cushion on the futon. “What’s that expression you always used to say, Uncle G?”
He pauses with his paw in midair and fixes his green eyes on me. I reach over and scratch behind his ears. “That’s right, like leading a lamb to the slaughter.”
I peer through the peephole and see Lydia on the other side. She’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt while sneaking nervous glances at the door. She’s not looking at the camera above her so chances are she’s hasn’t seen it yet.
I take in a quick breath and let out an exhale as I open the door. I greet her with a casual smile. “Hey there. I wasn’t expecting you. Everything okay?”
She knits her brows in confusion and regards me for a moment. “Sorry. I, um, did I do something wrong? I thought we were going to order food and then you left so suddenly.” Her eyes move around, never stopping in one place for too long. She tilts her head, and then it happens. Her gaze lands on the camera. I study her face and hold my breath while I wait for a reaction.
The corners of her mouth lift slightly. “Oh, good. I’m so glad you replaced that camera. I was worried about you down here without it.”
I watch her closely and wait for something, anything to confirm that she’s the reason it went missing in the first place. I’m not sure what it is that I’m expecting—maybe shock or nervous babbling, but neither of those happen. She looks relieved. Her entire body seems to relax a little as she shifts her gaze back to meet mine.
I notice a bag in her right hand. She holds it up and grins proudly. “I brought pizza!”
“You ordered pizza?”
“Well, actually, it’s frozen pizza, but it’s the best I could do on such short notice. It’s not as good as Santino’s, but the box says it’s made with real cheese, so…” Her voice trails off as she searches my face. �
��What do you say, Owen? Want to take a chance?”
There’s vulnerability in her voice. Her question is about so much more than pizza. I remain silent for a moment as I consider the question and weigh my response.
How well do I really know this girl in front of me? Less than an hour ago, I was sure she couldn’t be trusted, but now as I stand here looking at her, it feels like nothing could be further from the truth. We haven’t known each other all that long yet I can’t deny the pull I feel every time I’m near her. I could close this door right now. Lydia would feel hurt and rejected and she would leave. And I would be right back where I started when I first moved here. Unattached and alone. Those two words used to thrill me. They were all I wanted out of life. Then I met Lydia and she challenged everything I thought I knew. I had made it my mission to remain on the outskirts of life. It was easier to be a spectator than a participant. Lydia made me want to play the game. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve never felt more alive than I have these past few months that I’ve spent with her. And now she’s standing before me, pleading with me to let her in.
That’s the thing about chances. If you never take any, your life will remain predictable—safe. But where’s the fun in that?
I regard her for a second more before I give her a reassuring smile and nod my head. “Lydia, there’s nothing I would like more than to take a chance on frozen cheese with you.”
51
I wrap a towel around my waist and smile at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. After what Lydia and I just did, covering myself up feels pretty ridiculous.
I let out a chuckle as I think about how fast things progressed. We made quick work of that frozen pizza Lydia brought over and even quicker work of each other as soon as we finished eating.
