TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

The kind of gentle that made you want to scream. To scream and shove and make it all stop.

  "Yes," I said, as I had so many other times over the past week. Firmly. With conviction. "It is."

  The two men exchanged a quick look, but I saw it. I saw the look, and I knew what it meant.

  That they felt sorry for me.

  Pitied me.

  "No," Edwards said, this time a little less forcefully. His eyes burned with the same intensity as the morning I'd met him. "He played you, sweetheart. That's all. Just like he played the others. He played you like a song."

  From the other side of me, my uncle reached for my hand, and squeezed. "I'm sorry, mon chaton. I trusted him. I believed him." His voice was also quiet, his eyes unusually moist. But his words, what he kept saying, he was like a broken record, playing the same lines over and over. "I should never have let you anywhere near him."

  They sat there, the three of them, surrounding me as if I was a child they were afraid to let out of their sight. They'd thought bringing me here would make it better. Make me better.

  They were wrong.

  "No," I said. "No." Pulling back, I broke contact with Sloan and my uncle. "You're wrong," I said. "All of you." I stood before they could reach for me, edged away before they could stop me. "He didn't play me." Cold. I stepped from the shadows and into the glare of the sunlight, but the cold wouldn't stop seeping.

  "He was trying to protect me." It was all there in black and white, every moment. Every revelation.

  Every truth.

  "He saved me." Me. Instead of going after her.

  Which he could have. He could have gone after her.

  And proven his innocence once and for all.

  But he'd known.

  He'd known that going after Danielle meant leaving me with no way to escape.

  "No," Edwards said, looking me dead in the eye. "That's what he wanted you to believe," he said. "But it's a fantasy. A beautiful, romantic story you want to believe, because you were supposed to. Because that's what Aidan Cross did."

  Did.

  Past tense.

  My throat worked, my mouth trembled.

  But I bit down, fighting both.

  "He told stories," Edward kept on. "Good stories. And he made you believe."

  My heart kicked hard. I could see him, see him still, our last day together, kneeling in the grass alongside the highway, holding me....

  "He turned you into his puppet," Edward gritted out. "He made you think and feel exactly what he wanted you to—"

  "No—" His story. His world. They say I was trapped in both. That I followed the script. His script. The one he plotted exclusively for me.

  A story in which I was the victim—his victim.

  And he was the misunderstood hero.

  "Every emotion, every thought. He created them," Edwards said, standing.

  The second he took one step toward me, my eyes flashed.

  And he had the good sense to stop. Moving at least. But he wouldn't stop talking. "He made you feel them. Believe. But all along he was simply manipulating you into writing his alibi, not only for past crimes, but the one he was still planning."

  I stood there, without moving.

  I stood there without speaking.

  I stood there, trying not to feel.

  But that was impossible.

  They say I don't remember. They say I can't separate reality from fantasy. That Aidan arranged everything—everything. That I was drugged. Hallucinating. That I've rewritten events. That I had to. That doing so is the only way I can handle the horror of what really happened.

  Of Aidan.

  Using me.

  Manipulating.

  Trying to kill me.

  "He knew what he was doing," Sloan said, standing. He stepped toward me, didn't stop no matter how forcefully I looked at him. "There was no one better at it. What Nicky said, the characters he created...the plots he concocted...that he lived. But they're not true. None of them."

  My hands found each other, fingernails digging deep. "You weren't there," I said mechanically. "You don't know—"

  "Yes," Sloan said, and then he was there, right beside me and reaching for me. Taking my hands.

  Holding them in his.

  "I was," he said, exactly as had in the hospital, when I asked for the hundredth time where Aidan was. "I was there. I saw the woman you wrote about—she wasn't Danielle."

  I tried to step away, but the nightmare held me in place, the one that kept circling closer, no matter how hard I tried to make it go away. The woman. The bed. Candles.

  A voice.

  A struggle.

  The fire.

  Arms. Reaching for me.

  "Kendall." His voice came to me, Sloan's. Quiet. Sad. I knew it was him. He was the one who stood there. But it was another voice I heard, another voice that whispered through me...

  "I saw him. I saw Nicky. I've told you that. I saw him with the gasoline. He tried to kill me—"

  I stared blindly ahead. I knew how the story went. Sloan followed Aidan to the house and found him upstairs. They fought. There was a gun. Sloan got control, and fired. Aidan went down. Then Sloan ran into the room and found me. Carried me outside.

  While the inferno consumed the mansion.

  And Aidan.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Gone.

  They said he was gone.

  That they found his body among the charred ruins of the beautiful old mansion.

  "You were his most elaborate set-up," he continued in that maddeningly gentle voice. "Seduce you into writing a story clearing his name. Make you fall in love with him. Then rushing in to play hero and save you from a fire...he himself set."

  Everything inside of me screamed.

  Everything inside of me cried.

  "I know it hurts," Uncle Nathan said, and then somehow he was there, too, standing with Sloan. "And I'm so sorry, mon chaton. But you're safe now. You're alive. That's all that matters."

  No.

  No.

  It wasn't all that mattered.

  Because they were wrong. All of them. I know that. I wasn't crazy. I was there, in the mansion. I lived every second of those minutes. And I know they were real. All of it. Everything.

  It was.

  Aidan emerging from the darkness. Aidan carrying me through the flames. Aidan holding me in the grass, promising he was never going to let Danielle touch me again.

  Promising me before he vanished.

  Because he had to.

  I knew that. Deep inside. I knew it was the only way to keep his promise and end the nightmare. The only way to make Danielle stop.

  To die.

  Aidan had to die.

  But that was the story. I knew that. Sloan and my uncle, Detective Edwards, they were the ones who had it wrong.

  They were the ones following a script.

  "You're wrong," I whispered, "someday the truth will come out." And someday everyone would know what I already did, that every word I wrote is true.

  I wasn't crazy.

  I wasn't hallucinating.

  And Aidan wasn't dead.

  He wasn't.

  And he didn't try to kill me.

  But Detective Edwards, Sloan, my uncle...they were right about one thing.

  His world, Aidan's.

  His story, Nicky's.

  I'd stepped into both.

  And I was still there. The end had yet to be written. I knew that. There would be a twist. A surprise ending yet to come.

  With Aidan Cross, there always was.

  And I would be waiting.

  Because the best stories, they never end the way you think they will.

  #

  The manuscript sits on the gleaming glass of the coffee table. Beyond, bright sunshine pours through the wall of windows, revealing the giant waves pounding the beautiful Belize beach.

  "You can't publish this."

  I hear the words, and feel everything inside of me tighten. On a
slow breath I rip myself from the seagulls diving into the shimmering blue waters, to the man who arrived at my uncle's vacation villa only a few hours before. He sits there, in the wicker chair on the other side of the table, watching me. Detective Marc Edwards.

  He holds the last few pages in his hand.

  "Maybe not now—" I start, but he doesn't let me finish.

  "Not ever."

  Two words. That's all they are. But they land there, right between us, with the force of a sledge hammer.

  "Kendall." That's Sloan. He sits beside me, close enough for him to slide a hand to my thigh.

  Automatically, I stiffen.

  "You know that's not how it happened." Gentle. His voice is so, so gentle. Too gentle.

  The kind of gentle that makes you want to scream. To scream and shove and make it all stop.

  "Yes," I say, as I have so many other times over the past week. Firmly. With conviction. "It is."

  The two men exchange a quick look, but I see it. I see the look, and I know what it means.

  That they feel sorry for me.

  Pity me.

  "No," Edwards says, this time a little less forcefully. His eyes burn with the same intensity as the morning I met him, there in the shadows of Aidan's house. "He played you, sweetheart. Just like he played the others. That's what Aidan Cross did best."

  From the other side of me, my uncle reaches for my hand, and squeezes. He's been hovering like a lost puppy. "I'm sorry, mon chaton. I trusted him. I believed him." His voice is also quiet, his bloodshot eyes unusually moist. But his words, what he keeps saying, he's like a broken record, playing the same awful refrain over and over. "I should never have let you near him."

  They sit there, the three of them, surrounding me as if I'm a child they're afraid to let out of their sight. They thought bringing me here, far away from the greedy public eye, would make it better. Make me better.

  "No," I say. "No." Pulling back, I break contact with Sloan and my uncle. "You're wrong—all of you." I stand before they can reach for me, edge away before they can stop me. "He didn't play me." Cold. I step from the shadows and into the glare of the sunlight, but the cold won't stop seeping.

  "He was protecting me." It was all there in black and white, every moment. Every revelation.

  Every truth.

  "He saved me." Me. Instead of going after her.

  Which he could have. He could have gone after her.

  And proven his innocence once and for all.

  But he'd known.

  He'd known going after Danielle meant leaving me with no way to escape.

  "No," Edwards says, lifting his eyes to mine. "That's what he wanted you to believe," he maintains. "But it's a fantasy. A beautiful, romantic story you want to believe, because you were supposed to. Because that's what he did."

  Did.

  Past tense.

  My throat works, my mouth trembles.

  But I bite down, fighting both.

  "He told stories," Edward keeps on, like the relentless detective he is. "Good stories. And he made you believe."

  My heart kicks hard. I could see him, see him still, our last day together, kneeling in the grass alongside the highway, holding me....

  "He turned people into his puppets," Edward grits out, with something that sounds dangerously close to regret. "He made them think and feel exactly what he wanted them to—"

  "No." His story. His world. They say I was trapped in both. Lost. That I followed the script. His script. One he plotted exclusively for me.

  A story in which I was both heroine and victim.

  His victim.

  Because instead of the misunderstood hero he cast himself to be, he was the villain.

  "Every emotion, every thought. He created them," Edwards says, standing.

  The second he takes one step toward me, my eyes flash.

  He has the good sense to stop. Moving at least. He won't stop talking. "He made you feel them. Believe them. But all along he was simply manipulating you into writing his alibi, not only for crimes he's already committed, but the one he was still planning."

  I stand there, without moving.

  I stand there without speaking.

  I stand there, trying not to feel.

  But that's impossible.

  They say I don't remember. They say I can't separate reality from fantasy. That Aidan arranged everything—everything. That I was drugged. Hallucinating. That I've rewritten events. That I had to. That doing so is the only way I can handle the horror of what really happened.

  Of Aidan.

  Using me.

  Manipulating.

  Trying to kill me.

  "He knew exactly what he was doing," Sloan says, standing. Stepping toward me, he doesn't stop no matter how forcefully I look at him. "There was no one better at it," he says, and for a broken heartbeat, time falls away again, and it's my first night in New Orleans, and Sloan is there, standing in the shadows—warning me. "What Nicky said, the characters he created...the plots he concocted...that he lived. But they're not true. None of them."

  My hands find each other, fingernails digging deep. "You weren't there," I say, or try to, but the words are robotic. "You don't know—"

  "Yes," Sloan says, and then he's there, right beside me and reaching for me. Taking my hands.

  Holding them in his.

  Holding—and not letting go.

  "I was," he says, exactly as did in the hospital, when I asked for the hundredth time where Aidan was. "I was there. I saw the woman you wrote about—she wasn't Danielle."

  I try to step away, but the nightmare holds me in place, the one that keeps circling closer, no matter how hard I try to make it go away. The woman. The bed. Candles.

  A voice.

  A struggle.

  The fire.

  Arms. Reaching for me.

  "Kendall." His voice comes to me. Quiet. Sad. I know it's him, Sloan. He's the one standing there. But it's another voice I hear. Another voice that whispers through me...

  "I saw him. I saw Nicky. I've told you that. I saw him with the gasoline. He tried to kill me—"

  I stare blindly ahead. The sky and the clouds, the ocean and the beach, they all blur. I know how the story goes. Sloan followed Aidan to the house and found him upstairs. They fought. There was a gun. Sloan got control, and fired. Aidan went down. Then Sloan ran into the room and found me. Carried me outside.

  While the inferno consumed the mansion.

  And Aidan.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Gone.

  They say he's gone.

  That they found his remains among the charred ruins of the beautiful old mansion.

  "It was all a set-up," he continues in that maddeningly gentle voice. "His most psychotic. Seduce you into writing a story clearing his name. Make you fall in love with him. Then rushing in to play hero and save you from a fire...he himself set."

  Everything inside of me screams.

  Everything inside of me cries.

  "I know it hurts, mon chaton," Uncle Nathan says, and then somehow he's there, too, standing with Sloan. "And I'm so sorry. But you're safe now. You're alive. That's all that matters."

  No.

  No.

  It's not all that matters.

  Because they're wrong. All of them. I know that. I'm not crazy. I'm not. I was there, in the mansion. I lived every second of those minutes. And I know they were real. All of it. Everything.

  It was.

  Aidan emerging from the darkness. Aidan carrying me through the flames. Aidan holding me in the grass, promising he was never going to let Danielle touch me again.

  Promising me before he vanished.

  Because he had to.

  I know that. Deep inside. I know it's the only way to keep his promise and end the nightmare. The only way to make Danielle stop.

  To die.

  Aidan had to die.

  That was the story. The narrative. Sloan and my uncle, Detective Edwards, they're th
e ones following the script.

  "You're wrong," I whisper. "And someday the truth will come out." And everyone will know what I already do, that every word I wrote is true.

  I wasn't following a script.

  I wasn't hallucinating.

  Aidan didn't try to kill me.

  And he's not dead.

  He's not.

  He can't be.

  But the three men staring at me, they are right about one thing.

  His world, Aidan's.

  His story, Nicky's.

  I stepped into both.

  And I'm still there. Will always be there. Locked. Waiting for an ending yet to be written. I know that. There'll be a twist. A breathtaking surprise still to come.

  With Aidan Cross, there always is.

  Because the best stories, they never end the way you think they will.

  #

  Aidan was late on his current book.

  He'd cancelled his last three trips to New York.

  No-showed an afternoon television interview.

  Never answered the phone when anyone from the publishing house called.

  And Naomi was as close to being done as an editor could be with their prized cash cow.

  She was counting on me to fix things.

  Long after her rant and Aidan's driver returned me—and only me—to the quiet Garden District mansion, I stood at the guest room window, watching the light glow from the carriage house.

  Go to bed, I told myself. Call it a night. Start fresh the next morning.

  That's what I should have done.

  It's not what I did.

  Beyond my room, the narrow hallway stretched in both directions, two doors to the right, two to the left, all closed, exactly as they'd been when I arrived, and when I left for the party. I'm not sure why I stopped outside the nearest room—

  Except that's a lie.

  I know why I stopped.

  I stopped because I was curious. I was curious and alone in his house, and I had no idea if or when I'd have the chance again.

  I stopped because I wanted to know what was on the other side—what Aidan Cross kept behind closed doors.

  With a quick glance toward the staircase, I reached for the clear glass knob—

  Locked.

  So was the second door.

  And the third, this one on the left, next to the room where I was staying.

  They were all locked, even the fourth, all but the guest room. One of them would be his, where he slept. The others....

  A quick little twist went through me.