A sad ending indeed to a sad life.
One questions how many women like Miss Faye wander our city, at the mercy of fate and fortune, weary from the fight to subsist.
It would seem the murder of Anne Donovan provides no answers, only questions.
* * *
Gabriel was reaching in the hall closet for a towel when he heard a knock on the door. For a flash of a second, he thought it was another demon. A female. Then he dismissed the idea, not sure why he had even thought it was. He couldn’t feel any energy, only the warmth of a human being outside his door. Definitely a woman though.
Rapping on the bathroom door, Gabriel waited for Sara’s “come in” impatiently. He wanted to dispense with whoever was standing outside the door so he could go back to Sara. Finish what they had started. What Sara had started. What he wanted to finish, regardless of the consequences.
He quickly opened the door and tossed the towel on the floor, unable to prevent himself from glancing inside. She was still behind the shower curtain and he couldn’t see her at all, which was probably a good thing. “There’s someone at the front door. I’m going to answer it. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
She laughed. “Where would I go? I’m naked and wet.”
Just what he didn’t need to hear. And he decided not to mention that he had brought her a towel. “Be right back.”
The minute he opened the door, he regretted it. It was the girl from the po boy shop. The girl who Sara said had stopped by earlier. He’d already forgotten her name, yet she was standing on his doorstep, big, wet tears in her eyes and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. She had a giant army green purse over her shoulder and crossed diagonally so that she didn’t have to hold it, yet she was still clutching it in front of her.
This was going to take tact. Something he wasn’t all that great at. “Hey, this is a, uh, surprise. How are you?” he asked, hoping to feel out exactly why she was there.
“How do you think I am?” she asked, her voice high and shrill. “I’m awful. I’m sucky. You’re just standing there looking at me all politely and you have a woman living with you. I’m in love with you and you have a woman living with you.”
Not knowing where to go with that, Gabriel shook his head, keeping his voice even, and he hoped, soothing. “I’m not sure why that would matter to you. You and I… we said hello a few times. We didn’t have a relationship beyond that.”
“Yes, we did.” Her voice was trembling now. “It was there, in the way you looked at me, in the way you touched me. And I felt it. When I met you, I knew that you were it for me. I met you and that was it, do you know what I mean?”
Gabriel felt absolutely awful. He couldn’t even remember her name, and she was declaring that her life had altered when meeting him. It was a burden he despised, one that he resented, loathed, felt the injustice of over and over. Why should someone else be punished for his sins?
There was no answer, only the echo of the question in his head, and the feeling that there was something he was missing, something he was supposed to know, to learn, to solve. An end.
“I do know what you mean, and that’s really flattering, but I’m not worth it, honestly. I don’t deserve these feelings you have for me.” Gabriel wanted to touch her, to reassure her, but that would be a mistake. That would only encourage her.
She was weeping now, her nose red and dripping, tears streaming down her face. Swiping at her cheeks with the canvas of her purse, she said, “Don’t do that. Please, God, don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, wishing he knew how to free her, how to just make it all go away.
Of course, he knew how to create the illusion of making it go away. That was what absinthe and opium could achieve. The modern version of heroin would work just as well if not better. But that would only accomplish oblivion for him, not her. It wouldn’t fix anything. And he would hate himself even more than he did standing there watching her sob, pathetic and irrational.
“Look at me like that. With pity. I don’t want your pity. I want your love.”
He didn’t know how to erase the pity from his eyes, from his face, from his soul when he did feel it. Pity for her that she had fallen victim, that she was suffering. “I don’t have any love to give.”
Maybe that was true. Maybe that was why he stayed this way, year after year. Maybe that was why he could never return. He hadn’t loved, enough or well. Hadn’t loved God, himself, Anne. Maybe he didn’t even know what love was.
But he did know he wanted to reach out to this girl, wrap her in his arms and tell her he was sorry for her pain, sorry he had stumbled across her path, ripped her out of normalcy and into agony.
“Gabriel, is everything okay?”
Damn. He turned and saw Sara standing in the living room in her tank top and skirt, no bra, toweling her wet hair dry.
Before he could respond, she glanced around him and saw the girl in the door.
“Rochelle? What are you doing here?”
Rochelle. That was her name. How ironic that Sara remembered when he didn’t. “Sara, just give Rochelle and I a minute.” He didn’t think it was a good idea for Sara to be involved, for Rochelle to be further humiliated.
But when he turned back to face the girl, he caught a glimpse of shock and horror on her face before she sobbed and ran, her pace so fast Gabriel was afraid she was going to trip and fall down the narrow stairs.
“Damn.” He said to Sara over his shoulder, “Stay here. I need to talk to her. I can’t let her leave like that.”
“Gabriel, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
But he was already heading down the stairs. This was his fault. He needed to fix it. He didn’t know how, but he had to try.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw Rochelle had stopped in the passage to the street, bent over her purse.
“Rochelle, I’m really sorry if I’ve hurt you, but I had no idea you felt this way about–”
Gabriel forgot what he had been trying to say when Rochelle turned, her big dark eyes wide and glazed with shock, pain, misery. Something fell out of her hand, clattering on the bricks, and he realized it was metal, long and narrow, with a straight edge. A switchblade. Her wrists and palms were covered in blood as she held them out to him, eyes beseeching, purse falling slack against her thigh.
It was almost impossible to process, to believe what he was seeing. Her pale fingers raised up, the vivid red of the blood streaming across them, back down her wrists, the jagged wounds brutal and desperate, the crimson stain pouring over the swarm of butterfly tattoos on her young, delicate skin.
He had done this. His weakness, his addiction, his gluttonous lust for escape, for the need to boost his faltering confidence, his inability to cope with his responsibilities and the job he had been entrusted with.
Watch. Guide. Protect.
“Sara!” he yelled as loud as he could. “Call 911.”
Yanking off his t-shirt, he reached out and pulled Rochelle’s hands and wrists together, swaddling the shirt around them tightly, so her fingers entwined. Pulling to create pressure, hoping to staunch the flow as much as possible, he looked into her eyes. She was losing focus, her legs starting to crumple, and he slid his free arm around her back, holding her up against his chest so she wouldn’t fall.
“Stay with me, Rochelle.”
“I…” Her eyes started to roll back into her head.
Gabriel shook her a little. “Look at me.”
She did, sad, confused, scared.
And Gabriel did what he never did. He locked gazes with her and let her see into his eyes, his soul, his true nature. He let her see the light and full force of his power, the hope and beauty and promise and future. Projecting into her mind, he showed her what she could have– a man who truly loved her, a house in the Quarter with a lush courtyard, her every heart’s desire. He found her love of art and passion for sculpture in her racing thoughts, and so he showed her a successful career, w
here her work showed in national galleries and the art community knew her name. It was wonderful and it could all be hers if she held on, clung to it, chose it.
Her eyes widened, in wonder, awe, joy.
And then she lost consciousness, slack in his arms.
* * *
Sara drove back from the hospital, eyes scratchy and throat dry. Gabriel had insisted on staying with Rochelle, who was thankfully okay, but had been admitted. Sara was exhausted, with a clinging headache and a ravenous cotton mouth, which had to be from the absinthe drinking. She hadn’t wanted to leave Gabriel, who was taking Rochelle’s suicide attempt hard, but she had realized her presence was only distressing Rochelle, and distracting Gabriel.
So she had decided to come back to the apartment and leave him to wait for Rochelle’s parents to arrive from Baton Rouge.
She had no idea how they had become embroiled in this girl’s problems, or why Gabriel seemed to think he had any reason to feel guilty about anything, but she completely understood wanting to stay with her, to try to help her.
It had been heartbreaking when Sara had seen the girl in a faint, blood all over her hands and arms. When Sara had first grabbed the phone, dialing 911, and run down the stairs, she had almost fainted herself. The sight was so shocking, so unexpected, the blood jarring and vivid and a horrible reminder of her mother’s death, that Sara had almost thrown up. She had still been drunk, which she hadn’t realized until that moment, when her mind had rolled slowly and laboriously to process what she was seeing, to take action, to separate fear from reality and understand that Rochelle had tried to kill herself.
She hadn’t seen that coming, hadn’t understood how truly desperate Rochelle had been, and she had actually told Gabriel he shouldn’t follow after the girl. Now she knew that they would have probably found Rochelle dead in the passageway in the morning if Gabriel hadn’t had the compassion to go after her.
His face had been so intense, so rigid, so filled with self-condemnation when he had looked up at her, Rochelle slack against his chest, her blood smeared on his bare chest and forearms, that Sara had actually been frightened. It had made her realize she didn’t know exactly what had happened to Gabriel’s girlfriend, only that he clearly still lived with the damage from the tragedy every day, just like she did.
Interesting though, that neither of them had chosen the out that Rochelle had. Sara had never wanted to die.
But maybe she and Gabriel had been slowly killing themselves with sleeping pills, alcohol, guilt, anguish.
She didn’t want that for herself or for him. She wanted to live, to breathe in at the start of a new day and look forward to what was ahead.
Finding a spot on Dumaine, which she was starting to realize was a miracle in the French Quarter, she pulled in and then readjusted her car to be aligned better. The day was already hot, even though it was barely eight in the morning. It was quiet, the sound of water dripping down from the recently watered potted plants on the balcony above creating a rhythmic and soothing pattern. Sara stepped out and tipped her head left and right, trying to release the tension in her neck. Eventually when Gabriel got home, they were going to have to talk about Rochelle. Try to process what the hell had happened. And acknowledge what Rochelle had interrupted.
What had seemed so logical and reasonable when she’d been drunk now had her blushing in the daylight. She would have sworn on a stack of Bibles at the time that she wasn’t drunk, and her thoughts had been so clear, her actions so natural, that she hadn’t hesitated to touch herself in front of him. It had been right, good, sexy as hell. Last night.
Today she was feeling a bit like she wanted to run away and never be seen by Gabriel again, clothed or unclothed. God, what had she been thinking? He had told her straight out he couldn’t get involved with her, couldn’t have sex with her. So her solution was to masturbate in front of him? Nothing about that made sense.
But it had been sexy. And he had liked it. She felt warm just remembering the look in his eye, the sound of his music swelling around her, the way he had grabbed her and tossed her on the piano. His tongue inside her.
Sara pushed open the gate and stepped inside, unable to prevent herself from glancing at the spot she had found Gabriel with Rochelle. She was expecting to see dried blood splashed on the ground, but it wasn’t there. Which made sense. Most of Rochelle’s blood had been caught by her shirt and Gabriel’s, and it wasn’t the kind of wound that sprayed and dripped all the way down to the ground anyway. But she still looked before heading up the stairs.
And stopped in shock when she saw what was sitting in front of Gabriel’s apartment door.
It was an unopened bottle of absinthe.
What the hell was that doing there?
Sara went up and studied the green bottle sitting there. It was the same brand that Gabriel had opened the night before. Maybe he’d had a second bottle. Maybe he’d bought another one to replace the one she had put a serious dent in. But she knew immediately that made no sense because he wouldn’t have had time to do that and he wouldn’t have left it sitting on the landing.
A cold chill raced down her spine. She darted her eyes back down the staircase, then tested the doorknob to the apartment, leaning around the bottle. It was locked. She’d locked it after the ambulance had left with Rochelle and she and Gabriel had headed to the hospital.
Picking the bottle up, she saw there was a decorative tag attached to the neck with a ribbon. It was a quote.
In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.
Sara didn’t know what it meant, or what the point was supposed to be, but it kicked the fear up another notch. It didn’t look like something the liquor manufacturer had intended to be there. And someone had intentionally set the bottle out for her. Fumbling with the key and the bottle, she managed to get the door open, herself inside, and the door locked behind her.
Only to scream when she saw a man sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone, leg crossed casually.
“Whoa,” he said, glancing over at her. “You have bigger pipes than I would have given you credit for given that you look like you have TB. In person you’re even more waifish than the pictures Gabriel had of you.”
Sara gripped her purse, trying to dig inside it for her phone. “Who are you?”
“I’m Alex, Gabriel’s friend. We go way back. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned me.”
She shook her head, not sure if she should turn and run, or if she should believe him. He must have used a key to get into the apartment, which had to indicate he was Gabriel’s friend, whether Gabriel had ever mentioned him to her or not. She and Gabriel didn’t know each other that well, frankly. He probably had lots of friends she knew nothing about.
“You must be Sara.”
Not sure what to say, she just nodded. “Yes.” The assumption would be then that Gabriel had mentioned her to Alex, which further legitimized his claim of being a friend. But she was still suspicious and a little freaked out.
He stood up, tucking his phone into the pocket of his dress pants. He was dressed like he was headed into the office, his blue button up shirt crisp and ironed. Alex had short, dark hair and the kind of smile that, while perfectly charming, almost looked condescending. Walking towards her, he stuck his hand out. “Gabriel told me about you. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” She shook his hand automatically.
“Where is Gabriel, by the way? I was hoping to talk to him.”
“Uh, he’s at the hospital. There was an incident outside our apartment last night.” Sara suddenly realized she had referred to Gabriel’s apartment as belonging to her as well, and felt heat start to creep up her cheeks. This was Gabriel’s friend and she didn’t want to sound presumptuous. She also didn’t want to explain Rochelle’s weird obsession with Gabriel.
“An incident?”
“A girl tried to kill herself and Gabriel is visiting her.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “He’s at it again,
is he?”
“What do you mean?” Sara wanted a drink of water and some aspirin desperately. She felt like she was having a hard time processing information, like her brain had slowed to a snail’s pace, and her head was throbbing.
“Gabriel. He gets too emotionally involved with these girls.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Well, she did try to kill herself. He’s just being compassionate.”
Alex gave her a wry look. “I call it being stupid. You don’t know how many times I’ve seen him do this.”
“Do what?”
“Take in a broken woman thinking he’s going to nurse her back to good mental health. Like a bird with a damaged wing.”
Like her, maybe? Not a flattering thought.
“It’s a big waste of his time. You can’t fix another person.”
That was very true. She could vouch for that with her own mother.
“I don’t think he’s trying to fix this girl. He just felt bad for her. It was a very random thing.” She didn’t know what else to say. She really wanted Alex to leave so she could take off her shoes and curl up on the bed with her kitten. Go to sleep finally.
“Well, I’ll take off then, since he’s not home. I need to go see my daughter. She’s having boy trouble, as usual. But if you could tell Gabriel I stopped by, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure. It was nice meeting you. Sorry I’m a little out of it from lack of sleep.” Sara wondered how old Alex was that he had daughter dabbling with dating already. She would have put him at no older than thirty-five, but then again, she herself had been nineteen when her own mother was thirty-five.
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 50
