Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  A drawer dangled from the nightstand like a cigarette from an ingénue’s lips.

  He turned, half expecting Rylee to be on his heels. But she stood petrified in the apartment doorway, hands clasped over her mouth, eyes wide. He motioned for her to stay there. He needn’t have bothered.

  She looked like she never planned to move again in her whole life.

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom. He approached the pockmarked door, his feet raising water from the carpet. Pushing it open, he peered inside.

  The bathtub ran, water pouring over the lip. He sloshed across the vinyl floor and shut off the knobs. The surface of the water stilled.

  He saw something floating out of the corner of his eye. He yanked the curtain back.

  Near the top of the tub, a soaked bra, striped pink and white, frilled around the edges. Near the middle, the matching thong.

  As if a woman had been submerged here, and her body dissolved, leaving only her underwear behind.

  His gut twisted. Turning around, he recoiled, slipping backward. He grabbed the curtain for support, only to have it and the rod crash to the floor. Cold water spilled onto his shoes and jeans.

  The words were inscribed in thick black marker on the toilet lid’s underside. The letters emphatically uppercase.

  YOU’RE MINE.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Last time he broke in without leaving a trace. Just an unspoken message in the sheets. Now he’d made sure there was no mistake. She stared at the words, not reading but hearing them. An angry snarling shout, the kind that leaves flecks of spit behind.

  In spite of the warm draft from the open apartment door, she stood shivering on the bathroom threshold. No matter how tightly she held herself, the tremors wouldn’t go. “What does it mean?”

  Logan turned at the sound of her voice. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  His skin was pale as the white plastic tub. She gazed into the water and saw that another message had been left behind.

  Her bottom lip trembled. “What does it mean?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Does he think I’m his?” A fit of coughing seized her, threatening to flood her throat.

  He reached for the lid, lowering it as carefully as a museum exhibit.

  She leaned over to prop her hands on her knees, taking quick, erratic breaths. “Who is this guy? What does he want?” She looked at the water lapping at her feet. Pictured the carnage of her apartment. “It’s not my things, obviously . . . because he completely destroyed . . . everything I have in the world.”

  Suddenly he was before her, his arms around her. And she realized she was shaking. Convulsing with horror. Her throat raw, her eyes burning in the sockets.

  She squeezed herself against him, digging her hands into his muscled back, pressing her face into his chest.

  She couldn’t speak. She could hear a sob in her throat, but couldn’t fathom where it was coming from.

  He kept saying it was all right, all right—whispering the formula into her ear, a magic spell he kept getting wrong.

  Then it all rushed out of her like so much tepid bath water, the emotion spilling onto the floor, leaving her wet and dripping, but also numb.

  She slipped out of his arms, not wanting to be touched. In the mirror, the eyes looking back at her were dark and empty and glistening. The skin flushed pink.

  He splashed to the side of the tub, staring down. “This I just don’t get.”

  Her hand dipped gull-like through the rippling surface, snatching the bra and thong, balling them in her fist. She ripped them free of the water and, turning, slung them to the far side of the bedroom.

  “Rylee.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Is it some kind of message?”

  “Yeah,” she snapped. “It means, ‘I’m a sick pervert.’ It’s the universal symbol.”

  “Sorry. I just thought—”

  “No, I’m sorry. Look. I didn’t tell you everything. Remember when he stole those things from my gym bag? That’s what he took.”

  “Ah.” He was still treading carefully. “Those exact ones?”

  “Not those exact ones. I threw them out. I wasn’t going to wear them after . . .” And then she stopped, realizing what she’d just let slip.

  “You threw them out? But I thought he took them, that was the whole—”

  “He took them,” she said. “And last night, he brought them back.”

  “Last night? While we were on our date?”

  “Yes. He broke in and . . . made the bed, and he put them back in the drawer. I was going to put a new deadbolt on today, but before I could, your baseball buddy threw me in jail.”

  He was silent a long time. Finally he took her by the arm, leading her out of the bathroom, sitting her on the edge of the bed. When he leaned down, she could see how calm and reasonable he was trying to be, from the measured expression to the constraint in his voice. Like he was on the bomb squad and just needed to figure out which of her wires to pull to keep her from exploding.

  But she wanted to explode. To kick and claw and spit and curse and— “We have to call the police,” he said.

  Wrong wire.

  “We have to do what?” She jumped to her feet, letting him have it with a glass-shattering voice, a radioactive glare.

  He didn’t flinch. “What choice is there?”

  “You’re talking about the people who wanted fifty thousand dollars to let me out of jail? The ones who think I pulverized the Davidsons’ house and trashed my own car? What are they gonna do when they get here? Arrest me for vandalizing my own place?”

  Breathless, she took in the destruction around her. No, the desecration. The remnants of her life with Nonie at Folly Beach. Pretty much everything she had in the world. In tatters and rags. Torn apart.

  And for what? To send some twisted message? A message that was supposed to mean something?

  “I’m sorry.” He slipped his hand into hers. “We have to call them, Rylee. You don’t see what I see. There’s no way they’re gonna walk in here and think you did this to yourself.”

  She started to argue, but there was a squeak at the door.

  “Rylee?”

  It was Liz.

  “Tell her I’m in here,” she said, pulling her hand from his.

  Logan turned, but before he could get a word out, Liz was already rushing through the doorway to the bedroom, her hands glued to her face like that painting of the Scream.

  “What happened?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She flung herself at Rylee, wrapping her arms tight. Cooing, shushing, rocking until Rylee again broke into sobs. Straight from the gut.

  They went to Liz’s apartment after Logan called the police. Rylee curled up on the futon, wrapped an afghan around her shoulders, and buried her head in her hands. The thought of detectives going through her shredded things was just as repugnant as the monster who’d done the original damage.

  Liz hovered like a timid hummingbird. “Can I get you something? You hungry? Or how ’bout a shower? You wanna get cleaned up?”

  Rylee got tired of shaking her head. “We need to call Mr. Sebastian. He won’t want me talking to the cops without him here.”

  As she spoke, she looked to Logan, expecting him to fly into action. But he was strangely still.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  She sighed. “Would you rather I call Karl?”

  “No.” Picking up her phone, he scrolled through it and stepped outside, shutting the door softly behind him.

  When the police arrived, she stayed with Liz. At the thought of all the damage, her eyes started to melt again. Liz put an arm around her.

  “I’m just glad you weren’t home when it happened,” Rylee said.

  A knock at the door, and a middle-aged lady slipped through. Her short black hair and unflatteringly tight pantsuit meant business. A badge
dangled around her neck. She introduced herself, but Rylee missed her name. She expected the woman to be gruff, but instead she spoke to Rylee in the softest of tones.

  “Is Detective Campbell going to be here?” Rylee asked.

  At the sound of his name, the woman detective gave the thinnest of smiles. “Any minute now.”

  Rylee nodded, then clasped her hands together. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve called my lawyer, and I’d prefer not to say anything until he arrives.”

  The woman nodded. “Under the circumstances, I understand.” After she left, Rylee heard her lecturing another officer out on the walkway.

  “You know something?” she was saying. “I don’t believe everything I read in the papers or see on tv. I look at the scene. And until the scene tells me otherwise, that girl in there is a victim.”

  A spark of warmth entered Rylee’s heart. She caught Liz’s eye. “I like her.”

  Logan appeared at the door, ushering Grant Sebastian through.

  Judging from the lawyer’s stricken expression, he’d already looked in on the apartment. “I’m so sorry, Rylee. Are you all right?”

  Before he spoke, she’d have bet money all her tears had dried up. But the well turned out to be inexhaustible.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing her raw eyes. “Anyway, who’s the lady detective?”

  Logan jumped in. “Sheila Santos. Nate can’t stand the woman.”

  That’s enough for me, Rylee thought.

  “You haven’t made a statement, have you?” Sebastian asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Then I’m going to go out there and see if I can learn anything. If you need me, I’ll be right outside.”

  He excused himself, and Logan followed. After several moments, Rylee stood.

  “Where are you going?” Liz asked.

  “Out there.” She paused at the door, reluctant to go.

  “Why?”

  “Because it occurred to me that all of a sudden I’ve been letting Logan and Mr. Sebastian handle all my problems for me.”

  Liz gave a sniffly laugh. “Girl, in the last twenty-four hours you’ve been arrested, vandalized, and threatened. Under the circumstances, I’d say it’s okay to coast a little. So just sit yourself back down and chill.”

  Rylee compromised by posting herself at the door, listening to the activity outside through the narrow opening. Logan and Sebastian were conversing in hushed tones.

  “I spoke with Ann Davidson earlier,” Logan said. “She claims her stolen painting was originally acquired through you. That you were selling it for Flora Monroe.”

  Sucking in her breath, Rylee adjusted the window curtain slightly so she could peer through with one eye.

  “It was a confidential transaction. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “Well, I have reason to believe that some, maybe all, of the things the Robin Hood burglar has stolen were originally in the Monroe family.”

  Sebastian’s whole face—from his crow’s feet to jowls—suddenly collapsed. His body staggered visibly, his hand gripping Logan’s bicep for support. “Are you serious about that?”

  He nodded.

  The old man’s voice was little more than a whisper. “What reason do you have?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  Drawing up to his full height, Sebastian fixed him with a steady glare. “I thought you were on Rylee’s side.”

  Logan stiffened. “I am.”

  “Then I shouldn’t have to tell you how prejudicial the statement you just made could be to her case, assuming it were to be repeated. Your theory would give the police precisely what they lack, a plausible motive. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, if you are on her side, I hope you’ll keep that in mind from now on. If you don’t, it’s Rylee who will suffer. This may be just a story to you, but it’s her life.”

  They moved farther down the walkway, taking their conversation with them.

  Rylee eased the door closed and flattened a hand against the frame. Pulse pounding in her temples, lungs filling, she could hardly catch her breath.

  Liz came over to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  You were selling it for Flora Monroe. . . .

  “Maybe you should sit down. You look—well, never mind how you look.”

  Some, maybe all, of the things the Robin Hood burglar has stolen were originally in the Monroe family. . . .

  She leaned her head against the door. The things Robin Hood had stolen were connected to her? How? And why hadn’t Logan said something to her?

  This may be just a story to you, but it’s her life. . . .

  Was it just a story to him? Karl had warned her time and again.

  But she hadn’t believed him. Didn’t want to believe him.

  Yet, Logan had acted funny when she’d wanted to call Mr.

  Sebastian and he’d no more gotten her into his car tonight than he began asking her about some dog. Butterscotch. Something was definitely going on. And he was obviously keeping it from her.

  “Rylee, I’m serious.” Liz pulled her by the wrist. “You need to sit down. I’m going to get you some Tylenol. I guess everything’s finally catching up to you.”

  “Yeah.” She allowed Liz to lead her back to the futon. “I think it is.”

  “I’m heading out, my dear.” Mr. Sebastian pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Rylee. “Now that Amelia and I are back, there’s no reason for you to worry with Romeo. I really appreciate you taking care of him while we were gone.”

  She set the envelope on Liz’s table. “It was no trouble. He’s a real sweetie. You can call me anytime.”

  The door opened. She’d expected Logan, but the first one over the threshold was Nate Campbell. Detective Santos followed on his heels, then Logan. The little living room could barely hold them all. They shared an uncomfortable look, uncertain who was going to take the lead.

  “Miss Monroe.” Campbell had to clear his throat before continuing. “I’m going to have to request a handwriting sample from you.”

  Logan threw his hands up. “Give us a break, Nate. What, are you blind?”

  Santos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, enjoying the moment.

  “My client isn’t obligated to give you anything,” Mr. Sebastian said. “And under the circumstances, this is starting to look like harassment.”

  Campbell ignored them both, crouching down to Rylee’s eye level. “Listen to me. The best thing you can do is cooperate with my investigation.”

  “Detective—” Mr. Sebastian began.

  Rylee stopped him. “It’s all right. I’d give you a diary or a letter or something like that, but it might take too long to reassemble all the confetti. Why don’t I just write something for you, and then you can go have it analyzed.”

  He handed her his notebook and pen. She didn’t even hesitate before leaning over the pad to write.

  After one look at the sentence, Campbell snapped the notebook shut and walked stiffly out of the apartment.

  Before following him, Detective Santos put a card in Rylee’s hand. “If you need anything, I want you to call.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped it into her pocket.

  Logan watched them go, then closed the door. “What did you write?”

  She smiled for the first time since arriving home. “ ‘Detective Campbell is a doofus with a badge.’ ”

  She took a shower first, then a bath, then another shower. By the time she was finished, her skin had pruned up, but she felt clean.

  Wonderfully, blessedly clean.

  Pulling on a pair of Liz’s sweats and a T-shirt, she toweled her hair dry, and padded out to the living room. Liz was nowhere in sight. She’d left to get takeout, but not before insisting that Rylee stay with her as long as necessary.

  Logan was asleep on the futon. Her messenger bag lay on the coffee tabl
e.

  Sitting on the edge of the table, she riffled through the bag for her phone. Dialing her voice mail, she set the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and began to clean her nails.

  “Rylee. This is Doug Bostick. I can’t begin to tell you how shocked and disappointed I am. You are obviously relieved of all duties. Effective immediately. You can put the keys in the mail.”

  Beep.

  “It’s Latisha. . . . I don’t even know what to say. Please . . . don’t bother coming back. I’m so . . . speechless. I just—”

  Beep.

  “Rylee. It’s . . .”

  She put the phone on her lap and let the messages run. She recognized the voices, though she couldn’t understand the actual words. But there was no need. She knew what they were saying.

  She fished inside her bag for the big ring of color-coded keys.

  She unclipped one after another, dropping them on top of the growing pile beside her.

  “What are you doing?”

  She looked up. Logan sat staring at her.

  “What does it look like?”

  “Looks like you’re crying.”

  “Am I?” She touched her cheek. “So I am.”

  He pulled away from the futon, scooting forward until his legs formed a bracket on either side of her. He picked up her phone, listened for a minute, then silenced it with a push of a button. “You don’t need them.”

  Oh, but she did. She needed them all, now more than ever. She started to say so, but her lips trembled violently.

  He placed his hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Rylee.”

  She blinked. A tear splashed onto his hand.

  He tugged gently until she released the key ring.

  “I love them.” She looked at him. “They’re . . . they’re my family.”

  “The animals?”

  She nodded. “And they love me, too.”

  He pulled her closer, tucking her legs up so he could wrap her completely in his arms.

  After a while, once she was breathing normally again and the sharp edge of the voice mails numbed to a dull pain, she slid away. “I heard you on the walkway earlier,” she said. “Talking to Mr. Sebastian. You said the things Robin Hood stole belonged to my family. That Mr. Sebastian had sold a painting for Nonie. What was that about?”