Now, it was well past eight. Of course Dickface was late, and Gwen had already come out to the front steps. Seeing her, my heart always raced but that night…wow. It wasn’t the knockout black dress or the heels or the sparkly bag she’d probably stolen. In the dusky light, she practically glowed, her skin radiating stardust. And the way she stood there, vulnerable and uncertain, like she doubted he’d come, like any guy in his sound mind would stand her up, that’s what really got me. I wanted to march right up to her, sling her over my shoulder, and carry her away. Neanderthal style.
Gwen’s face shifted in the last rays of sunlight, and I wondered if she’d heard my car door open. If she knew I was coming to rescue her. If she wanted to be rescued. By me. I hesitated.
And that’s when Dickface finally rolled up. I had to hand it to the guy. His timing was impeccable.
He had the nerve to honk. Can you believe it? Didn’t even bother to open her door. I shook my head in disgust and waited until the brake lights disappeared around the sharp curve at the top of the road. Then, I followed.
Everything I knew about tailing a mark came from the movies. Lesson one: Drive a car that didn’t stand out. Total failure. My ’Cuda was a head turner…like Gwen. Which meant I had to go overboard on lesson two: Stay a few lengths back. On the freeway, that was easy. I didn’t speed, didn’t signal. Just coasted behind them, my mouth dry with anticipation. I felt calm. Singularly focused. Like an arrow, perfectly aimed and whizzing toward the heart of its target.
Fortunately, Russ’s ride was no wallflower either. Even the worst spy couldn’t lose a cherry-red Porsche. When it glided off at the Twelfth Street exit in Oakland, I slowed, allowing a truck to move between us. The sedan behind me laid on the horn. And I held up my middle finger in the rearview mirror. The lady driver returned the gesture, and I felt the rage swell.
“Go around me!” I yelled, fist pounding the steering wheel. As if she could hear me, she zipped past, pausing to flip me the bird one more time. I swerved into her lane, ready to give chase. But—Gwen.
I’d nearly blown it. Russ’s car had snuck a light ahead of me.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, plowing right through the red. So much for laying low. I needed to get hold of myself. And fast.
I inched forward till I could see Gwen in the passenger seat. Her hair fell over her left shoulder in waves. Soft waves that always smelled like too-sweet watermelon. I thought of the night of the party. Of burying my face in her neck.
Focused again—nothing else matters—I drove on.
At the second stoplight, I watched Russ extend his scrawny octopus arm across the center console, seeking his prey. Gwen didn’t stop him.
At the third, I didn’t look at all. I cranked up the music. “Love Gun”—Gwen’s song.
The Porsche cruised down Broadway and turned into a parking lot near the water. I drove past and circled back. By that time, they were walking, Gwen a few steps behind. And I could see where they were headed. A banner hung from a white tent.
Congratulations Berkeley High Class of 1994! Welcome to Your Future.
I stared at the red-and-gold letters until they blurred together. Until the truth of them hardened in my stomach, a bitter kernel. And when I called Gwen’s name, all I felt was a yawning emptiness, so deep and wide nothing could ever fill it. I wished I was still drunk.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Russ’s face got red fast. Red and blubbery. Like I’d already hit him again.
“Nice shiner, Dickface.”
“Did you invite him?”
Caught in the middle, Gwen shook her head, her eyes wide and ricocheting between us.
“I just want to talk, Gwen. Please. Just give me five minutes.”
Russ grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. “Did you follow us here?” he asked me.
“Five minutes, Gwen. Then I’ll be out of your life forever. If that’s what you want.”
“Of course that’s what she wants. You’re a loser, dude. You’ll be cutting our grass someday.”
“Why don’t we ask her? Gwen?” Her eyes met mine, watery blue. And about to spill over. In them, I saw her answer, and my heart soared.
“Five minutes, Russ.”
****
Five whole minutes. I could change her mind in five minutes. Hell, as unfair as it seemed, sometimes five minutes could change your whole life. I’d lost my whole family, my whole world, in less.
“Let’s take a drive,” Gwen whispered, back where she belonged. With me. In the ’Cuda. Sitting shotgun.
“Seriously? Are you sure?”
She unzipped her sparkly bag, whipped out a miniature bottle of Jack, and downed half in one swallow. “Here,” she offered.
And I drank the rest. It sloshed into the empty core of me with a satisfying burn. I half-smiled at her and shook my head, firing up the engine. “You came prepared, didn’t you?”
“How else am I supposed to get through grad night?”
I drove us less than a mile to the Port of Oakland. The fog had rolled in from nowhere, misty and cold, and I shivered, cursing myself for leaving the top down. I tossed Gwen my leather jacket from the back seat—the Tiffany box hidden in the pocket—and she curled beneath it like a blanket. Maybe it was the fog, or the quiet, or the memories, but the whole place felt haunted. And I thought about turning around.
I hadn’t been there in years, but I remembered the way. Every Monday after school, my dad had taken Jesse and me here to watch the cargo ships unload their freight. And I’d held my breath, watching those beastly bodies navigate the narrow channel. Sure that one day, a ship would sink. And all those containers, filled with riches, would tumble into the sea. Sometimes, I wished for it. At twelve, it had felt like an adventure. But I saw now, taking Gwen here, it was the kind of thing you do with your kids when you’re poor. So poor you can’t even afford the movies.
“I can’t believe you punched Russ,” she said, after we’d parked. The fog was so thick, the whole world was a whiteout. It was just us.
I shrugged. “He deserved it.”
“You broke his nose.” She touched her own, adorable and sprinkled with cinnamon freckles.
“Improved it, if you ask me. But, I’m sorry you had to see it.”
I sucked in a breath and reached under my jacket, searching for her skin. I needed to touch her. “You’re freezing,” I said, cocooning her hand in mine.
“Why did you lie to me, Butch?”
I tightened my grip on her and summoned my courage. “I didn’t intend to, but that first day…you just assumed I was rich. So I went with it.”
“Not about being rich.” She pulled away, and the whole world felt colder. And me, more desperate.
“About what then?”
“Russ’s dad told us everything.”
“Us? Everything?”
“Me and my parents.” Oh God. “He said you’d been in and out of jail. That you’re a criminal. That you wasted all your settlement money.”
“Not all of it.”
“So you have been to jail?”
“Juvenile hall. There’s a difference.” A flare of anger shot up from the hollow space inside me. Lit me up. “Besides, you’re just as bad as I am. Worse even.”
“Worse? Really? I’ve never been to jail. Or juvenile hall.”
I started to argue, but her eyes iced over, and I knew I’d lose. Even if I was right, goddamn it. “Okay. Okay. I don’t want to fight. I just want…”
I kissed Gwen. And she kissed me back. A kiss unlike any other. Because it felt wrong. And necessary. The way a vampire must feel sinking his teeth into a perfectly good neck. Sucking out the life force with all his might, filling himself with it. Knowing it would never, ever be enough. Nothing would. “I love you, Gwen.” Killing the thing at the same time, ruining it for all eternity.
She pulled away—“Don’t say that”—and I winced.
“Why not?” Though there were a million reasons, least of all I had no freakin’ clue about love. Not even the iceberg tip of it. What I did know: Girls liked it when you said it. Usually.
“Because you don’t mean it. Not really.”
I swallowed hard, dousing another flare. Cherice had told her. I knew it. “Is this about Saturday night?” I asked.
The question, spoken aloud, froze us both. We stared at each other—two statues of ice—until she blinked first, in surprise. Her face, ghost-white like the fog. “Cherice told you?”
“Told me? Told me what?”
“Uh…” She bit her lip and looked down all innocent.
Was this the sort of face she gave her dad? The judge? Russ? Well, I wasn’t about to join the line-up of other suckers who’d fallen for her doe-eyed bullshit. “Told me what, Gwen?”
“That she and Matthias broke up.”
Thoughts flitted through my mind too fast to hold onto. I couldn’t make sense of it. And the alcohol wasn’t helping. It coated everything in a slick veneer of confusion. And beneath it, a dull rage that throbbed like a toothache. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I sort of hooked up with Matthias while you and Cherice were getting beer after the race. I don’t even remember it really. You know how out of it I was.” She sighed and turned away, broken. Her shoulders hunched and quivering like a drowned kitten. I knew exactly what she wanted. What she expected. And I knew I couldn’t give it to her.
“And then you slept with me? And you gave me shit for lying? For letting Cherice ride in my car? Jesus, Gwen.” It all spewed out—hot and slimy and wrong. Vile. But I couldn’t stop it, even if I wanted to. “Did you already screw Russ too?”
She whipped around, her wet face darkening in hurt, in anger. But, God, she was beautiful still. “Did you really think you were my first? Russ and I have been together since freshman year. We make sense. You and I both realize what this is. And what it’s not.”
“Am I not good enough for you? Is that what you’re saying?”
No answer. Only her eyes, wavering between yes and no. Between frost and foam. Steel and the open water of the ocean.
“Say it.” There was a hardness in my voice I didn’t recognize. “Say it, Gwen.”
Steel, it was. Then, ocean. Then, steel again. And her uncertainty goaded me like a finger to the ribs. Because she was better than me. “I won’t mean it. I don’t want to.”
My whole body tremored with sheer fury, and it scared me. “Yes, you do. Fucking say it, bitch.”
Her slap stung, burned. Seared flesh, really. Her words too. “You’re not good enough for me, Butch. You’ll never be good enough.” True or not, I needed them. They honed me, sharpened me to a point. A keen and fearsome blade.
Right then, I’d decided. I’m going to kill her. Less a thought than a fact, already written in the stars. A punishment I had to dispense, a debt owed to me, a sacrifice I deserved. Like a god. The God, maybe. Or just a man, who was barely a man, who thought he was a god.
And I had to throw a lightning bolt.
And Gwen just happened to be there.
Sitting in the ’Cuda, in the passenger seat, at the point of inflection. The last one. And no matter what had happened before, all the roads chosen and unchosen, I’d ended up with my hands on her neck.
Lovely, delicate as a stem under my fingers. Her fists beat against my arms like a million butterfly wings—frantic and futile. And my thumbs rooted into the small hollow above her clavicle. I thought of the necklace I’d wanted to put there. Of the five pennies. And the three graves. And all the world had robbed me of. Of all she’d robbed me of, this girl with so much life ahead of her. While mine had ended years ago. Before it even started.
What I couldn’t have burned through me, hot and sick. A fever.
And I squeezed.
Until there was nothing left.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Evie
January 19, 2017
Thursday
The detectives left hours ago, and Maggie’s dozing on the sofa, the television droning. Trey had been on the news. Armed and dangerous, they’d said. A wanted man now. And not just by the police.
Because Trey deserves to be punished.
For my mother. For Cassie. For Violet. For all the girls whose names I didn’t know. Hell, even for Danny. I name them off like a rallying cry.
But most of all, for me. Because I had to keep living without all the things he’d taken from me.
I’ve laid down his sentence. Quick or slow, hard or easy, I want him dead. And I want to be the one to do it. Even if it means we both end up in hell.
After twenty-three years, the ember is still hot.
And the thought is a spark.
The spark catches fire.
And the fire burns everything clean.
Except for the thought.
And so it goes. Over and over again. Until it isn’t just a thought anymore. It’s never just a thought. I tell my patients that all the time. A thought leads to a feeling leads to an action. A thought is the first step across the line between doing and not doing. And don’t I know it? I’d been thinking about slipping back into Butch’s arms all last night—how safe I’d felt there—and then I’d done it. Embarrassing myself, admitting my schoolgirl crush.
I dress and pad down the hallway to Jared’s room. Open his closet. Push aside his clothes, not breathing them in like I usually do. There’s no time for that, for sentimentality. Back here, in the bowels of the museum of Jared, is where Maggie keeps the gun she bought after Bill died.
I don’t know much about guns, but an internet search tells me enough. It’s loaded. And how hard can it be? Point and fire. The best part—it’s small enough to fit in my coat pocket.
I give Sammy a quick rub behind the ears and leave a note for Maggie.
Gone to the office. Be back soon.
Then, I snag the keys and go, heading out the driveway in the Prius that should have been a Corvette. And as of right now, it is one. And I’m Evil Evie. Tough and elegant. Dangerous too. Because how do you destroy a devil without becoming one?
I stop by the patrol car, and the officer lowers his window. Young and bored out of his mind. Now that I can see him up close—the drooping of his eyes—he might have been sleeping.
“I’m just heading to my office to grab a few things. I’ll be quick. I don’t need anybody with me.”
“You sure?”
I shrug, nonchalant. “It’s still business hours. I won’t be alone.”
“Alright. Call if there’s any trouble.” And he settles back into his seat, too comfortable. I think of Maggie. And how Trey could break her without even trying.
I reach through the window and smack his door. I like the way it sounds, the way it jolts him. “Do me a favor? Stay awake, alright?”
He’s wide-eyed now, looking at me like I’m unhinged. Off the rails. Just like Bobby, running from Evil Evie and her rat poison. The gun sits hard and heavy in my pocket. He doesn’t know the half of it.
****
It’s a long wait, but it’s worth it. At 9:05 p.m., I spot hair the color of fire, legs white as cleaned bones. Wearing the same black stilettos. The same oversized sweater, falling from a gaunt shoulder, the strap of a hot-pink bra exposed. And the snake tattoo slithering across her chest.
I wait until Ruby sits on the curb and puts a cigarette between her lips.
“What the fuck do you want?” There’s a new bruise—a nasty one—on her cheek, covered in makeup two shades too dark for her pale skin.
“To make a business deal.”
“I already got my own business. And I don’t do chicks.”
My bitter laugh surprises her, beca
use she sits up straight, takes me in.
“Not that kind of business,” I say, flashing the wad of money I’d withdrawn at the ATM. “This kind.”
“Lemme see it.” Her fingers are tentacles, latching onto my arm, squeezing. I shake her lose and step back, a little afraid of her. The intensity of her desire. I’ve gotta get paid, baby.
“You can look. But you can’t touch. Unless…” I count out the bills for her. Five hundred smackaroos, and I know she wants them by the way she stares.
“Unless what?”
“I need to know where Trey is.”
“Who’s Trey?”
“Alright, then. I guess you don’t want my money.” I call her bluff, turn away. Walk toward the Corvette, grinning. Because I know, it’s just a matter of—
“Wait.” Time.
She toddles across the empty street, like a newborn colt in those heels. And I see my mother in her. And Cassie. I feel disgusted all over again, using her like this. But it doesn’t stop me.
“He can’t know I told you.” Her whisper was as fragile as a dream.
“He won’t.”
“He’s at the Blue Bird. Room 157. His usual. But he’s not alone.”
“Matthias?”
She raises her eyebrows at me, twists her mouth. Like she can’t believe I had the nerve to ask. “I told you what you wanted, so…”
The money disappears inside her bra, and she starts back in the direction she came. Down the long stretch of road that leads to nowhere.
For Ruby too.
****
The Blue Bird isn’t blue anymore. It’s mustard. A dirty canary. Almost as bad as the color of the sofa my mother had dragged in. But I guess yellow bird doesn’t have quite the same ring, the kind that sticks in your head like a one-hit-wonder pop song. Even a head like mine where things disappear. Because the name is the same, spelled out in big letters. VACANCY, flashing beneath.
I park near the office and sit, watching 157 in my rearview. The curtains are pulled, but I know Trey’s here. Or close by. Because I spot the blue pickup from his place, parked at the fast-food joint across the street. No license plate.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 65
