UNMASKED: Volume One

by Cassia Leo

I unlock the door and walk into the kitchen. “Come in,” I shout across the breakfast bar and into the darkness.

  He opens the door slowly, but he steps inside and closes the door quickly. “Better?” he asks, referring to the closed door.

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “Please, call me Daimon.”

  Daimon Rousseau. Daimon pronounced Deh-món. So French. And something about knowing his first name, even if it’s not real, makes me less tense.

  “Why are you here, Daimon?” Saying the name aloud feels even better. If he weren’t here, I’d probably start repeating it. Daimon. Daimon. Daimon.

  “I told you I would be back. I still need to take your statement.” I can see his silhouette move and hear the soft crush of the carpet beneath his shoes as he takes a few steps toward the breakfast bar.

  “I already told you, I didn’t see anything. But even if I did, shouldn’t another detective be taking my statement? After all, you are the … I’m sorry, but are you the victim or the perpetrator in this crime?”

  He lets out a brief chuckle at this question. “I am neither. I’m the responding officer in this case. You were the intended victim.”

  “Right. Well, I have nothing to tell you. I didn’t see anything and I’m quite busy. I’d appreciate it if you left.”

  “Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t realize you were busy standing in the dark.”

  “I wasn’t standing in the dark.”

  “How is your stab wound?”

  I pause to take a deep breath as I remember the questions Grossman asked. And my stupidity for answering.

  “Not very well, actually. Your doctor asked too many questions and I don’t think she did a good job cleaning the wound.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Let me see the wound?”

  “I’m not going to let you see it.”

  “Then I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care if you believe me.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I grip the edge of the breakfast bar to keep from grabbing something to throw at him.

  “Let me see it,” he insists. “If it’s infected, you need medical attention.”

  “You’re not a doctor.”

  “I have a lot of experience with knife wounds. Just let me have a look at it. Or you can just lay here and die. It’s up to you.”

  “You think you’re so smart,” I huff. “I can’t show it to you. The dressing is stuck.”

  “Lie down on the sofa and I’ll get it unstuck.”

  My heart pounds with anticipation. Am I really going to let this stranger help me? Am I going to let him touch me?

  I can’t face Dr. Grossman after this. Not with her threatening to probe my privates in the name of medicine. This is less traumatizing. This is nothing.

  I turn around and gather the supplies off the counter. Then I carry them, cradled in my arms, into the dark living room. I drop everything onto the coffee table and push the table back a little so he can kneel next to me. Then I sit down on the sofa.

  He walks slowly, looking almost like a blind person as he taps his toe on the carpet in front of him with each step. Making sure he doesn’t bump into anything. When he reaches the coffee table, he bends down and feels his way around it until he’s about to step on my foot. I quickly pull my legs up onto the sofa as he kneels down.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see your foot there.”

  “Everything is on the table. Do you need me to tell you what everything is?”

  “No. I’ll use my flashlight.”

  “No light.”

  “Just to look at the table, then I’ll turn it off. I promise.”

  I swallow hard and consider telling him to leave. Then I remember that stitch I just pulled out. “Hurry up.”

  He turns toward the coffee table, on his knees, and the flashlight clicks on. I pull my hood over my face and turn away from him, toward the back of the sofa as he sifts through my collection of first aid products. He clicks the flashlight off and I sigh as I turn back to him. He has something in his hand. It looks like a square of cotton.

  “Just lie all the way back and relax.”

  I ease myself down onto the sofa, but I keep my gaze locked on his hands as they move toward my belly. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and I flinch.

  “Why are you so afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “I can hear your heartbeat.” He pauses for me to respond, but I don’t. “Just relax.”

  “Hurry up.” I repeat this demand because I don’t know what else to say.

  He lifts the bottom of my sweater up, but it’s not enough to see the top of the dressing.

  “Lift your back for a moment so I can raise this up a little more.”

  I raise my hips and lower back a little so he can push the sweater up a bit more. Then his fingertip makes contact with the skin over my ribs and I flinch again.

  “Please hurry.”

  “I’ll go as fast as I can.”

  He begins to pull the tape away from the top half of the wound, then he stops when he feels the resistance. He folds down the top half of the dressing and he squeezes the cotton square. A few drops of saline solution come out of the cotton and drip onto my burning wound. He uses the moisture on my skin and on the cotton square to loosen the dressing a bit.

  “Why do you hide your face?”

  The question stuns me and I have to remind myself to keep breathing. “I think you should leave.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.” There’s a long silence where neither of us moves, then he continues to clean my stitches. “I just wonder why anyone would want to hide such beauty.”

  The word beauty is not a word anyone has ever used in my reference. Not even my parents have called me beautiful. My parents were not the best parents, but at least I can say they never lied to me.

  “How do you know I’m beautiful if you’ve never seen me in the light?”

  “I don’t. But you have a beautiful figure and a graceful voice. It stands to reason that your face must match the rest of you.”

  “And if it doesn’t? Does that make me unreasonable?”

  “Not at all. It makes you different. Different is good.”

  He lifts away the old dressing cleanly and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to sit up and he places his hand on my belly to stop me.

  “Wait. Let me put your new dressing.”

  I push his hand off, perhaps a bit too roughly. “I can do that.”

  He chuckles as he stands. “Have you ever been touched by a man, Alex?”

  “It’s time for you to leave.” He bumps his leg on the coffee table as I usher him toward the door, then I quickly make my way back into the kitchen before he can open it and let the soft glow of the light in the corridor. “Thank you for your help, but I need to rest. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Alex. Until next time.”

  Chapter Four

  The lies we tell ourselves have more power to destroy us than any lie we are ever told by another. All week long, I lie to myself. I try to convince myself that I don’t want to see Daimon ever again. I tell myself that I didn’t need his help. I could have changed the dressing over my wound myself. And I insist he had no bearing on my decision to go back to Dr. Grossman’s office to have the stitches professionally removed.

  And the biggest lie of all: I felt nothing when he touched me.

  But after eight days without a single knock on my door, I can’t keep lying to myself. I don’t know what I felt, but I know it wasn’t nothing.

  His voice echoes so soft yet commanding in my mind. That delicate French accent. The strong nose and jaw I could barely see the silhouette of with my left eye. His lips, the bottom one just a bit fuller than the top.

  I shake my head to clear away the image as I pull the clean clothes out of the dryer and dump everything into a laundry basket at my feet. I push the basket back then close the door on the utility clos
et. Grabbing the basket, I take it into the bedroom and begin folding the clothes.

  My wardrobe consists of eight pairs of size six blue jeans, eight black hoodies, eight white camisoles, and eight pairs of underwear. Why eight instead of seven? In case I lose something, I’ll still have seven of everything until the new item is delivered from my preferred online retailer.

  I know it sounds crazy. Wearing the same thing every day. Never shopping in a real store. Believe me, I know. I used to watch TV and movies. I’ve seen how normal women my age live. Worrying over what to wear; spending hours at the mall to find the right dress to impress whatever random guy they meet at the bar. I know that’s considered normal. But I am in no way normal.

  And I was finally coming to terms with that until Daimon Rousseau blasted his way into my life two weeks ago. I’ve had two brief encounters with the man, who killed someone in front of me. Despite him being a killer, I allowed him into my apartment. And in return, he saved my life by referring me to a physician. Then I let him in again. And he touched me.

  “Have you ever been touched by a man?”

  No. I’ve never been touched by a man. The only time my father touched me was when we were fighting or training. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never even shaken hands with Aasif. I fought off Shorty and his friends two weeks ago and two months before that I fought off a huge drunkard in the gas station parking lot when he tried to grope me. But, other than that, I’ve never felt the touch of a man. Until now.

  I let him touch me.

  And now I can’t think of anything else.

  My panties are all that’s left in the laundry basket when I hear the knock at the door. I try not to smile as I lift the stack of folded clothes off my bed and dump them back in with the panties. Then I drop the basket onto the floor in front of my feet and kick it somewhere into the dark corner of my bedroom.

  I take a deep breath and walk calmly toward the front door. Looking through the peephole, my stomach vaults at the sight of him. He has his back to me again.

  Last time, I assumed this was a sign of submission. But now I’m wondering if he just doesn’t want me to see his face in the soft light of the corridor.

  Suddenly, that schoolgirl giddiness I felt a moment ago seems like a moment of weakness.

  I smile as I reach for the doorknob. I’ve healed enough to take him on.

  I pull the door inward just a couple of inches, then I head for the dark kitchen again. Like last time, he enters and quickly pushes the door closed in one swift motion. Making it impossible for me to get a glimpse of his face. The room is dark again, but not so dark that I can’t see him turn toward me. We’re already establishing a routine.

  Routines can be dangerous. Routines make people relax and do things automatically, without thinking. Not thinking is dangerous.

  “Good evening, Alex.”

  His voice is so different than any voice I’ve ever heard. It’s warm and strong, laced with a slight gruffness and that barely detectable French accent. All these qualities come together so that every word he speaks sounds orchestrated and … bewitching. As if he’s casting a spell on me.

  “Good evening, Daimon.”

  A long silence follows as I wait for him to tell me why he’s here and he waits for me to question his presence. Finally, he speaks.

  “Are you going to offer me something to drink?”

  “Are you planning on staying a while?”

  I wish I knew exactly what his face looks like. I could imagine him grinning right now.

  “All I have to drink is water,” I offer.

  “I’ll take that.”

  I turn around and step sideways. Reaching up, I open the cupboard above the counter and feel around until the tips of my fingers find a small glass near the back. I grab it off the shelf and turn around.

  “Holy shit!” I scream as I bump into Daimon by the sink.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, taking a step back.

  “Yes, you did!”

  “I’m sorry, Alex. Truly. I should have known you’d still be a bit jumpy from the attack.”

  I huff impatiently, slamming the glass down on the counter. “I’m not jumpy because of the attack. I’m jumpy because there’s a strange man in my apartment who just snuck up behind me.”

  “I’m a strange man?”

  “Yes! You killed someone and now you’re quietly paying visits to the one person who witnessed your crime. Yes, that’s strange.”

  “Strange … or smart?”

  “Get out!”

  He laughs softly and the sound drives me crazy. It’s so sexy.

  “I’m kidding, Alex.” His voice has taken on a bit of a hard edge now and I don’t like it. “I’m not grooming you to go along with my story. And I’m not trying to threaten you. I’m merely intrigued by you. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by a beautiful woman who hides in her apartment and can also fight off three armed men?”

  “Stop calling me beautiful. I’m not susceptible to flattery.”

  We stand in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, facing each other, waiting for the other to speak or make the next move.

  “I brought you something,” he says, reaching for the pocket of his dark hoodie.

  “Don’t move,” I warn him.

  He freezes. “You can reach into my pocket and retrieve it if that would make you feel better.”

  I focus on taking deep breaths as my heart beats faster. “If you try anything, I will kill you. One man is a lot easier than three.”

  “I believe you. And I wouldn’t dream of trying anything.”

  I reach forward slowly until my fingers make contact with the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s warm from his body heat and something about that makes me nervous. He’s real.

  I slowly slide my hand inside his pocket and immediately feel something soft. I feel around a little more then pull it out carefully. His hand comes up and gently closes around mine as I hold the feather up.

  “It’s a black ostrich feather.” His other hand comes forward to pull the feather out of my hand and the feeling of his skin on mine sends a chill through me. “I saw it in a gift shop on the boardwalk and thought of you. Soft and dark. Delicate.”

  I pull my hand out of his and tuck it behind my back. “I’m not delicate. Or soft.”

  “I would have to disagree,” he whispers, taking a small step forward effectively closing the gap between us. “I’ve touched your skin and it is very soft.”

  I swallow my anxiety and stand my ground. “What am I supposed to do with a feather?”

  The moment the words come out of my mouth I regret speaking them.

  His face is less than a foot away from mine and, from this distance, in the near absolute darkness of the kitchen, I can just barely see a hint of his features. A tiny hint of dark blue light painted in soft brushstrokes over the peaks of his lips, the tip of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones. But his eyes are still completely shadowed by that hood.

  “Alex?”

  I can’t breathe with him this close to me. But I almost can’t move. As if his body is a magnet and I’m a delicate piece of tin.

  “Yes?”

  “I know I can’t turn on the lights. And, to be quite honest, I rather enjoy getting to know you in the dark. But my curiosity is piquing, and I must …” His hand reaches up slowly. “Can I touch your face?”

  A sharp pain twists in my stomach, though I know there’s nothing he will feel on my face that will help him understand why I hide. I don’t have hideous scars, deformities, or malformations. I have severe discoloration of my skin and eyes. One brown eye and the other, my left eye, a gray so soft it’s almost white. I have to wear sunglasses to protect my eye and to hide it from the world. I wear thick pancake makeup to cover the discoloration of my skin.

  I think I could deal with the skin issue if I didn’t also have the discoloration in my left eye. When I was five years old, my mother walked me into the kindergarten classroom
and all the children were afraid of me. None of them wanted to sit next to me. My mother vowed then and there that she would never expose me to that kind of ridicule.

  She homeschooled me in all subjects, but one particular subject was the emphasis of her curriculum: How to Hide Alex’s Hideous Face. She gave me lessons on how to apply makeup to cover the skin discoloration when I was just seven years old. But she only took me out in public when it was absolutely necessary. Like when the basement was flooded during a particularly bad rainstorm and we had to stay in a motel for a few days.

  Other than that, I spent most of my days in the basement, being homeschooled by my mother or physically trained by my father. Always perfecting the art of hiding.

  So, Daimon won’t feel anything unusual on my face. He won’t even feel my makeup since I’m not wearing any tonight. I only wear makeup on days I work. And I’m not going back to work until tomorrow night. But I’m still afraid of letting him touch my face.

  I draw in a deep breath. “First, I want to touch your face.”

  “Very well.”

  My heart pounds so hard my chest hurts as I reach for his face. My fingertips reach his jaw first and I draw my hand back immediately at the prickly sensation.

  “That’s my scruff. Is it too rough?” he asks with what sounds like genuine concern.

  “No. Just … It’s fine.”

  I reach up again and the roughness of his scruff tickles my fingertips as I trace them along his jaw. My other hand reaches up to the other side of his face and I can hear him take in a sharp breath. With my hands working in unison, I trace from his jawbone down to his chin. Then I bring both hands up and place my fingers on each of his cheekbones. Before I can stop myself, my hands are sliding back to feel the curves of his ears.

  He exhales a soft sigh, as if he were holding his breath, then his hands are on my waist. “Alex.”

  The way he says my name, a soft incantation, I feel my muscles slacken. He can sense it and before I can question him, he scoops me up in his arms. My hands still clinging to the sides of his face, he looks straight ahead, his gait purposeful as he carries me to my bedroom.

  He lays me down gently then sits on the edge of the bed, the way my mother sometimes did when I was sick in bed as a child. He reaches for my face and I hold my breath. Then his fingertips make contact with my cheek and I exhale.