18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
FIAMETTA
I t’s been a whirlwind of a day... a week... a life.
I’m sitting on my bed, staring aimlessly at everything and nothing all at once. A noise comes from my door and a sharp pain strikes my chest. It feels as if someone stuck their hand in there, grabbed my heart and squeezed it in a tight fist.
There is no knock, just the sound of the handle turning and then my door swings open.
The ache I feel fades immediately when I see it’s Crue outside. I don’t feel the same elation he usually brings, but the pain is gone and that’s a positive sign.
“You’re using the door, again?” I want to sound light and airy so I make a joke, but with a raw throat and hours of weeping behind me, wallowing sadness are all I can muster. “You’re starting to make me think you’re becoming house-trained.”
He comes in, ignoring my sad attempt at a joke, and sits next to me on the bed.
“You should be safe now.” Neither of us look at the other. We stare ahead, into the future that might or might not offer us some hope of being together.
“How can you be sure?” I move one of my hands from my lap and place it onto his. He puts both hands over mine, and squeezes it softly. A thought springs to mind, but I’m not scared of it. I’m casually accepting a fate I sealed for myself, when I told Crue that Tomas killed my father.
“Have you already—”
“No,” he won’t allow me to finish the question. Some misguided attempt at preserving my innocence, perhaps. “But soon. It’s more complex than I originally thought. Time. I need time.” He sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Can you be strong for me, Fiametta?”
“I...” I can’t. I’ve used it all up. I’m spent, exhausted and I want to collapse into a tiny ball and forget this whole damned world exists. “…will do my best.”
“I need you to be brave. It won’t be easy.”
“Not much of one for pep-talks, are you?” Another lousy attempt at easing some of the tension with humor.
He shakes his head. “I’ve always been alone.” Crue stands up.
“Don’t go,” I say, “not yet. I need you here.”
“They want me dead,” he says. “If I stay, they’ll make it happen.”
He takes a step forward and I launch myself off the bed, taking his hand in mine. I use all my strength to pull him toward me, and even then, it only happens because he turns around.
My impenetrable wall.
“You’re going to get through this, Fiametta,” Crue cups my cheek with his free hand. His calloused fingers are incredibly delicate against my soft, aching cheeks. “I’m going to make sure of it.”
He made it clear at the Father’s funeral. It doesn’t matter what happens to him, as long as our child and I are safe.
“What if I can’t do this without you?” I don’t just mean the nonsense with Tomas, but the whole shebang. I’m so used to him lurking around every corner. Watching and waiting for his perfect moment to strike. Every time he does, it leaves me thrilled and satisfied...
But more importantly, we have a child on the way. A child who will need a father. And not some surrogate I find who generates a mere fraction of the passion Crue does. My jewel-eyed stalker.
“I can’t do this alone,” I admit, once the thought grows too heavy to hold it back.
“You’re not alone. I’m always one step behind you.” He leans forward and kisses me, and I kiss him back as the tears begin to roll again.
He finally breaks away and walks out. I let him go, unable to fight for what I want.
It’s too hard and I’m too tired.
***
The next evening, I’m drifting through the mansion, hopeless. I’ve had my cell phone glued to my ear from the second I woke up, stealing Simone away from whatever she’s doing. I need someone to talk to, and with Crue preparing for his battle ahead, she’s the only person I have left.
“If you still want to go through with it, I’m all set on my side,” Simone whispers. She is trying to be covert, as if we’re two secret agents on a mission. And, in some ways, I guess we are today.
“I don’t see any other way.”
Everywhere I look I am reminded of Father. The dining room where he insisted upon having dinners together in my youth. He always apologized for being late, even if he was a minute overtime. Or there is the grand piano downstairs. I never could wrap my head around it, favoring art over music, but he reassured me that someday I would. He told me that with enough practice and determination, I could do anything I set my mind to, and nothing could stop me.
I see us at the fireplace on Christmas Eve, opening presents. Then we are in our kitchen making my first self-cooked meal — an egg, hard boiled to the point of rubber, but Father ate it anyway.
And finally, his bedroom. It’s cold now. Not like the memory I have of it, with him deeply asleep in bed. One time I came barreling in, weepy eyed and screaming that there was a ghost in my room. I insisted it was watching me sleep. Father kissed me on the forehead and pulled me into bed beside him. He whispered that in the morning he’d rid my room of the foul demon and then he held me tight as I drifted off in his tender, fatherly embrace.
The next day, he did rid me of that troublesome ghost, by moving the floor-to-ceiling mirror that stood in front of my bed over to the side. It took me years to realize I was staring at my own reflection, distorted by the darkness to appear nightmarish. Father never made me feel bad about it, either.
He always insisted that these would be the memories that I would someday hold dear. How true it turned out to be. It’s funny, how a person’s death can put life into perspective. There were good times among the bad. Mostly when I was young, but isn’t that the right time for them? When you are young, ignorant and free things look better than later, when you have become old, bitter and calloused because you’ve found out the world’s a terrible place.
“Have you told him?” she asks, hesitating.
“No, and I’m not going to. He’s doing his own thing.” He is being Crue, and his own thing , murdering two men. I can’t tell Simone about that. She’d never understand.
“Have you decided when?”
“Now?” I shrug, retreating from Father’s bedroom. I’ve had enough of memory lane for one day.
“Say the word and we’ll do it.” She’s serious. God, I love this woman.
“Give me a day. Maybe two. Things are... complicated,” I head back to my bedroom, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead, so as not to bring on any more memories.
“Is it dangerous?” Her voice picks up enough for her concern to be clear in my ear.
“No,” I lie. She’s carrying enough of my troubles already, and she’s putting herself in danger just by helping me. The less she knows the better. “Just complicated.”
“I’m only a call away. Anytime you need me.”
“I know. Thank you.”
I reach the hallway leading to my room and in the distance, I see that my door is open. I know I closed it, simply because I always do. In this vast expanse of house, it’s my only sanctuary. My place of peace.
But someone’s inside it.
My first instinct says it’s Crue, and my heart flutters. Then, it sinks, because I realize that if it were him, he’d have chosen to come through the window instead. He’d have surprised me with his arrival, rather than announcing it.
Fuck.
“Are you going to be okay, tonight?” Simone asks as I creep further down the hall.
“I think so.” I stop outside the door, listening for any sign of life inside. Nothing.
“I need to go, Simone.” We should’ve come up with a codeword for when things seemed dangerous. I hope a sudden shift from chatting, away to having to run, will get the point across. “I’ll call you soon.”
I hang up and step into the doorway.
Tomas is sitting on my bed. All the bags I packed are lying open and their contents are scattered across the sheets. He has my copy of Pride and Prejudice in his hand, scanning through the notes I’ve written in it over the years. The antique copy that Crue gave me is resting at his side.
I freeze in place, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Tomas was bound to turn up eventually. He gets his kicks by watching me squirm. I should count my blessings it took this long to happen, after what he did to Father.
“A captivating read,” he shuts the book and waves it in my direction. “Particularly the scribbles. Mad ramblings and deep desires.” He tosses the book over his shoulder, and lazily shifts his eyes in my direction.
“What are you doing here, Tomas?” I’m rooted in place, unable to move or run. Fear takes a hold of my chest, squeezing the oxygen out of my lungs.
I’m scared.
More than scared.
I’m terrified.
“It’s time you and I had a chat, Fiametta. About the here and now. About the future.” He stands up.
“We don’t have much of it, so we better get started.”