by Lilah Grey
I pity her.
It’s not her fault. She didn’t choose the life she was born into, same as me and everyone else, but there’s a difference between us. I refuse to fit into the mold; I reject it while she embraces it.
I sit down next to her. “Ready to go?”
Her arms are folded across her chest, and I can hear her heavy breaths.
She turns to me. “You’re an asshole, Luke Masters. Did you know that?”
I shrug. “Are we going or not?”
She huffs and pushes off the swing. The porch vibrates as she slams the front door behind her.
It's not like I wanted to date Emma. She was thrust upon me by my mother when she learned that Emma Pace was interested. She found out during a PTA meeting. In Milton, the PTA existed solely for housewives to spread gossip. Only on rare occasions did they accomplish anything that benefited the students.
“If a Pace girl wants to date my son, then she’ll damn well date my son. End of discussion.”
She didn’t care how I felt. She wanted the connection, the social standing that would come from her son dating a Pace daughter. Something to gloat about with her friends at the next meeting.
I didn’t care about the Pace wealth. It was meaningless to me, but I knew if I didn’t go out with Emma, then my mother would take out her anger on Libby.
I didn’t want that to happen, so I went out with Emma. This was supposed to be our third date.
I make my way back to the house but stop halfway there. I can’t head home now. It’s too early. My mother would question me about the date, try to figure out why I’m home already.
I didn’t want to deal with it, so I head downtown to grab a burger at Mike’s Diner. That should shave off a good amount of time. My mind drifts to Libby as I trudge along the sidewalk.
I see her tear-soaked eyes as she walks through the front door to our house. I hear the loud crash of the plate of brownies she baked for Damian hitting the floor as she collapses. The dejection that streaked her face sent a sharp stabbing pain through my chest, leaving me reeling.
“He kissed, Sarah,” she said. “I saw…”
She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her eyes glazed over and she fell forward, her body heaving as she let out deep, guttural wails that shook me to my core.
My pace quickens as anger floods through me, pounds in my veins.
Fuck Damian. Fuck what he did to Libby.
He cheated on her.
She'd been sick on and off for the past couple of months, so she wasn't able to spend more than a few hours with him most weeks. With Damian being Damian, he was getting bored, and his eyes started wandering.
They wandered to Libby’s best friend. The only girlfriend she’d ever had. She’d known her longer than she’d known me.
Feeling better, Libby went to surprise him one night. She always raved about Mrs. Dunne’s brownies and thought Damian would love them too.
She found Damian making out with Sarah in his Mustang. They hadn’t even left the driveway before their hands were all over each other.
Even though Libby wanted me to leave it alone, I promised myself I’d make him pay for what he did.
Familiar laughter catches my attention, so rather than taking a right toward downtown, I take a left. The laughter gets louder; the voices get louder. My vision blurs around the edges as blood pounds in my head as I near the couple. I don't think. I'm on autopilot.
“Hey, Lu—”
I tackle Damian before my name leaves his lips.
He's on the ground, and I'm straddling him, wailing on him with everything I’ve got. He covers his face, but I get in a few good shots before the girl throws her body into me, trying to pull me off him.
“The fuck?” Damian groans from behind his arms.
I get another round in before I hear someone else’s voice.
“Get off him,” the voice booms from behind me.
I turn my head and see a police officer. The bright beam from his flashlight blinds me as it strikes my face.
I don’t think; I run.
“Get back here,” the officer yells at me, but I’m already gone.
My knuckles are raw and red and bloody, and my body shakes from the adrenaline coursing through me. Damian deserved more than what he got.
10
Luke
Damian’s office is nothing special: a small, windowless box lined with metal filing cabinets. The air is warm and stagnant and smells of stale coffee and cigarettes. Random piles of shit clutter the floor and tops of cabinets; white cardboard containers with cockeyed lids spew papers. A small clock hangs on the wall above the door, ticking time away as the low hum of conversation trails into the office.
I’m sitting on a hard, plastic chair, the kind of chair you might find in a high school classroom. I’m sure if I reach my hand underneath, I’ll find gobs of discarded gum stuck to the bottom. It’s tempting, but I think I’ll pass.
I cross my right leg over my left and lace my fingers together on my knee as I watch Damian shuffle papers behind the stacks of files and folders and other refuse littering his desk. At least, I can only assume that a desk is hidden underneath it all.
The crisp sound of papers rubbing together fills the air as Damian thumbs through a folder. His acting is on point. Damian actually looks somewhat interested in what's written on the pages, sighing and groaning now and then as his eyes scan the text.
He’s been at it for the past fifteen minutes: reading files, opening drawers, pulling things out, writing things down. Wasting my time, in other words. He knows what he’s doing; the rush to get me here followed by the wait.
It’s a power trip. He’s trying to get me to lose my cool. He wants to see me lash out in order to prove a little theory of his.
I’ll play his silly game for no other reason than to see his face when his theory crumbles in front of him.
I fold my arms across my chest as I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
Images of the night before flash in my mind. I see Libby’s naked body, so perfect, so beautiful. I can smell her sweet scent, recall the feel of her silky skin under my fingertips…
I nearly gave in to my urges last night. I was moments away from ripping the thin fabric that separated her body from mine. I was moments away from claiming her as my own.
I let out a sigh. I can feel Damian’s gaze shift to me, but I ignore him. Libby’s on my mind.
There’s something about her that drives me wild… I can’t control myself. The things she does to me that no one else can. It’s always been this way. She’s always driven me wild, but I could never act on it.
I couldn’t risk the rejection; I couldn’t risk losing her forever.
My dick hardens as I continue to think about her flawless body: the way her daisy dukes clung to her perfect ass; the swell of her breasts underneath her shirt.
When I first saw her in that uniform at Buck Wild, I wanted to bend her over a table and take her from behind.
I still do, and that’s a problem.
I’m getting too close. I’m letting her in, and that can’t happen. I’m no good for her. She’s innocent and pure and I’ll only warp her, twist her into something else. Something wrong.
We’re wrong for each other in so many ways.
What happened last night was a mistake—a small lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again.
I pull out my cell phone to check my email. No fires that need to be put out; Olivia has me covered. She’s the only assistant I’ve had that puts up with my shit and keeps my chaotic life in order. I don’t know what I’d do without that girl.
Damian peers at me over his handful of papers. “I’m sorry.”
He grins at me, a shit-eating grin that I’d like to wipe off his face if we weren’t in a police station. If he weren’t a detective…
He drops the files he’s holding onto his desk, letting them fan out in all directions.
“I completely for
got you were here. Laser focus. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
“Would you like something to drink before we start? Water? Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
I want to get this shit over with. I clear my throat as I shift my weight in the chair. My ass is growing numb sitting here.
Damian stands up and turns around. He grabs a glass carafe from the shelf behind him and pours room temperature coffee into a white ceramic mug.
“Sugar and cream?” he asks.
I applaud his effort. He’s really trying. He might make a mediocre detective one day.
I keep my mouth shut.
“Yeah, I’m not a fan either. Black. That’s the only way.”
He clears off a space on his desk, setting the mug in front of me before walking out of the office.
Seriously?
He returns a few minutes later, shutting the door behind him.
“So,” Damian begins, sitting back down.
The chair creaks and moans under his weight as he repositions himself. He clasps his hands in front of him, resting his forearms on the edge of the desk.
“I want to thank you for coming in today on such short notice, and I appreciate your cooperation with this investigation.” His hands bob to the cadence of his speech.
It’s an investigation now… interesting.
“And I'm truly, truly sorry for your loss.”
Bullshit.
He knew Margaret, saw the shit Libby and I dealt with on a daily basis. This wasn't a loss, and he wasn't sorry. Margaret reaped what she sowed.
I grit my teeth. “Not a problem.”
With the door shut, the room begins to feel like a sauna.
“How’s Libby holding up? She’s had a rough few months.”
Months? He has no idea.
“Fine.” I’m growing tired of this chit-chat.
He looks at me for a long moment and then nods. “If you don't mind, I'd like to begin.”
“By all means.”
About fucking time.
He grabs a small black tape recorder, places it in front of him, and clicks it on. Then, he grabs a pen and a pad of paper. His eyes harden as he looks at me.
“What can you tell me about last night?”
I know you're not supposed to talk to cops without a lawyer present, even if you don't have anything to hide. My lawyer told me as much when I talked to him on the phone earlier. He was flying out, but wouldn't get here until later tonight. I wasn't going to wait, though; I wanted to face Damian.
This was personal.
I tell him about last night. Some of it true, some it false. Mostly false. He doesn’t need to know the whole story. It doesn’t matter much anyway. Details…
“Uh-huh,” He says, stroking his chin as he mulls it over.
He leans toward me; he's close enough that I can see beads of sweat form on his brow and upper lip. He points to the marks on my cheek.
“I still don’t understand why she—why Margaret would attack you.”
I shrug. “Neither do I.” Lie. “She wasn’t the most stable person, as you know.” True.
“She seemed stable and lucid the last time we spoke.”
There’s a tinge of irritation in his voice. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He clears his throat.
“Rose. Mrs. Dunne,” he clarifies. “She told me that she heard you and Margaret in a heated argument. Spooked her. Do you recall what that argument was about?”
He leans back and takes a sip from his cup without taking his eyes off my face.
Why can’t he just give up?
My shirt begins to cling to my skin as wet spots form across my chest and back. The heat is getting to me. These questions are getting to me. This is a fucking waste of time.
“Do you believe everything a drunk says?” I snap at him.
His lips curl into a smile.
I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have snapped.
“Sorry,” I say after taking a deep breath. “The heat is getting to me.”
“No A/C.” He waves a hand in front of him. “I get it.”
“I wouldn’t call it a heated argument.”
“Do you recall what the conversation about then?”
“Money, I believe.” Another lie.
“What about money?” His eyes light up.
Good.
“She wanted a loan, and I wouldn’t give her one. She was addicted to prescription pills, and I wasn’t about to fund her habit.” Partially true.
“I see.”
He leans back and folds his arms below his chest. His eyes glaze over as he stares at me.
I know Damian well enough to recognize that he’s not convinced. We used to be close, but that friendship sailed long ago. I warned him to back off Libby. She was off-limits. He didn’t listen, and the rest is history.
I take my phone out and glance at the time. I wonder how much of Henry’s journal Libby’s read by now and whether she’s connected the dots. It’s a lot of information to take in at once.
I hope she’s okay.
“Don't worry. I won't hold you here much longer.”
The right side of his mouth curls up.
“One last question. If you don’t mind, of course.”
He asks as though I have a choice.
“Go on.”
“When Margaret attacked you, did you retaliate? Harm her in some way?”
“Retaliate?” I snort. “Is that a joke?”
He raises his eyebrows, a smile creeping on his lips. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, running my hand through my hair. After collecting my thoughts, I continue.
“After Margaret attacked me, I grabbed her wrists to restrain her. She was kicking and screaming and spitting. I wanted to calm her down, but she ended up biting me.”
I pull back my sleeve and show him a purplish bruise on my arm. Damian cringes.
“You might want to get that checked out.”
I shrug and roll my sleeve back down.
“After she bit me, I pushed her away. She lost her balance and hit her head on a cabinet in the living room. It hardly affected her. She was back on her feet almost immediately.”
I could feel myself flush. I reach into my pocket and pull out a pill.
“Mind if I have some water?”
“Sure.”
Damian leaves the office and returns with a paper cup filled with water.
I place the pill on my tongue and wash it down with the small amount of water in the cup. Damian watches me as I crush the cup and toss it toward the waste bin by the door. It rims in.
Still got it.
“She had more than a little bump on her head, Luke,” Damian says, cocking his head slightly.
I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position.
“What do you mean?”
Damian walks around the desk. The leather soles of his shoes thud against the floor as he walks behind me and grabs a baseball atop a cabinet. He tosses it in the air. It makes a smacking sound each time he catches it in his palm. He does this a few times before putting it back.
He turns the chair next to mine toward me and sits down, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him.
I meet his gaze.
“She had a significant wound to her head. She lost a lot of blood. That's what I'm saying, Luke.”
There's tension in his voice, restrained anger. Red mottling appears on his neck, along his jaw, and up his cheeks.
“She was fine when I left.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Is that what killed her? Blood loss?”
“Still looking into it.” Damian leans back, groaning as he stretches his arms over his head. “All we know is that you were the last one to see her alive.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
He stands up abruptly and walks around his desk. “We’re going to have to search your
car.”
“For what?”
“Look. We don’t know what happened to your mother,” he says, sitting back down in his chair. He tents his fingers. “We’re trying to explore every avenue available. We’re in the process of obtaining a warrant, but I’d appreciate it if you cooperated.”
If I cooperated… What the fuck was I doing right now? I didn’t have to come here.
I wave at him dismissively. “Fine. Search my car.”
I take my keys out of my pocket and toss them onto a pile of folders on his desk. He’s not going to find anything.
“Thanks.”
There’s that shit-eating grin again.
“Speak to Jessica on your way out. You can borrow a car.”
How gracious.
“We’ll be in touch,” Damian says as I walk out the door.
Ten minutes later I’m leaving Milton in an old, rusted Lincoln Town Car that sputters and whines all the way to Austin.
It’s dark by the time I make it back to my apartment. I immediately sneeze as I open the door.
Fucking cat.
The lights are off, and I don’t hear or see Libby. Maybe she’s in bed? I check my phone. It’s not that late.
I check her room. The bed’s made and Crouton is curled up in a ball on top of it, purring. There’s a sick feeling roiling in my gut. She has no car. No money. No phone. Nothing. Where the hell could she be?
I walk into the kitchen and flip the light switch.
There’s blood on the counter.
11
Libby
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here, staring at the knife in front of me. My body feels as though I’d just completed a marathon. Aches and pains infiltrate every muscle fiber as I do everything I can to resist the urge building inside me.
I know I shouldn’t cut, but after reading my father’s journal, I don’t know how else to cope with all the emotions rushing through me.
It can’t be real.
Luke knows my past; he knows how I deal with things. What did he expect would happen after he dumped my father’s journal on my lap knowing what was written inside?
I look over to the journal still resting in the same spot I left it. I haven’t read another word because I’m afraid of what else I might find. I’m afraid of how I might react.
