31. Abigail
31
ABIGAIL
“ A re you okay?” Franklin’s voice is rough with worry over the phone. “I just walked past your front door, and the paint is all fucked up like someone’s been trying to kick it down. You didn’t answer when I knocked.”
“I’m fine,” I promise, quick to allay my friend’s concern. “I’m at Dane’s place. There was an altercation with that new guy, Ron, earlier. But I’m fine now.”
“What did that curly-haired creep do to you?” Franklin demands. “I swear to god, I will make his life hell until he moves out of this building.”
My heart warms, and my lips curve in a small smile.
“Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
Franklin is a wonderful friend, but I know he’s capable of chilling acts of passive aggression when someone crosses him. He can make Ron so uncomfortable that he’ll move out sooner rather than later.
“But I’m safe with Dane. Plus, I kicked Ron in the balls. I don’t think he’ll try anything again.”
“What? Who are you, and what have you done with sweet Abby? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you hurt the fucker if he was harassing you. But I didn’t think you could hurt a fly.”
“I didn’t either,” I admit. “But I’m glad I did it too.”
“Good for you,” Franklin approves. “So, you’re across the street right now? Can I come see you, or are you busy with your gorgeous doctor? I haven’t caught up with you in weeks.”
“Across the street?” I’m not sure where he got that idea. “No, I’m at Dane’s place.”
“Right. The old powder blue house. I know the one.”
“No,” I correct him, confused. “Dane lives in Harleston Village.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then Franklin asserts, “I’ve seen him coming and going from the house across the street for months now. I noticed him when he moved in. He’s too hot not to notice.”
“You must be mistaken. I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood except when he’s come to visit me.”
“Okay, maybe he has an identical twin,” my friend says slowly, but I can tell he’s suspicious. “Because a man who looks exactly like him lives in the house across the street from our building. I thought you said you knew him because he comes into the coffee shop every morning.”
“He does.” My throat is getting tight, and my stomach churns.
I don’t understand what’s happening. Franklin has to be mistaken.
“The Sunny Side Café is three blocks away from where we live,” Franklin reasons. “Nowhere near Harleston Village. I assumed Dane was a regular because he lives in the neighborhood.”
“He just likes the café,” I say.
“Is it near his workplace?”
“I…I don’t know.” I’ve never asked where Dane’s practice is located.
A thought occurs to me. “Why don’t you just ask him?” I suggest. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. He should be at our building right now. He told me he was going to talk to Ron.”
Another beat of silence. “Okay, let me check.”
I hear Franklin’s door open and close, and then he’s knocking on Ron’s door across the hall.
He knocks again.
And again.
My heart is in my throat.
“No one’s here, Abby.”
That can’t be right. Dane’s been gone for almost an hour now. It’s less than a twenty-minute drive between our places, even with traffic. If he’s not with Ron, he should be back with me already.
“Okay.” My voice is a bit shrill. “Thanks for checking.”
“Are you all right? Something weird is going on.”
“Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m fine. Listen, I’ll have to call you back. I need to get in touch with Dane.”
“Text me to let me know how it goes,” my friend requests.
“I will.”
I end the call, and my thumb hovers over Dane’s contact. I’m about to message him, but I hesitate.
Something is wrong. I sense it in my gut, and I can’t shake the slightly queasy feeling.
I take a breath and tell myself I’m being silly. Franklin is mistaken. There’s no way Dane lives in the house across the street from our building.
An image flashes through my mind: Dane’s living room the first time I ever came here. It was so clean. Sterile.
Like no one lived here.
It’s different now. There are coasters on the coffee table downstairs, and a few crumbs litter the counter, despite Dane’s fastidious nature.
Maybe I’m just messy, and I’ve made his house a little less tidy.
I’m being ridiculous. Dane will come back soon, and he’ll explain everything.
I decide to text him.
When do you think you’ll be back? How’s it going with Ron?
My phone pings seconds later with his reply.
Everything is fine. I’m sure Ron and I will come to an understanding. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry, pet. I’ll handle this.
My heart sinks.
But he’s not with Ron. He’s not at my building. Franklin just checked.
Dane is lying to me.
I shake my head. This is getting out of control, and I’m on the verge of spiraling.
I can clear this up easily enough. I’ll just go to the powder blue house and find out who really lives there. Then, I’ll come back here, and Dane will be waiting for me.
I look at his text again. He didn’t say that he’s with Ron right now. Just that they’ll come to an understanding.
It’s vague and a bit cryptic, now that I’m reading it with greater scrutiny.
Gathering my resolve, I open the app to call a car and head downstairs. Within minutes, I’m riding across town, back to my neighborhood.
I stare at Dane’s text during the short drive:
I’ll handle this.
I recall the way his eyes went ice cold when he threatened Ron in the laundry room.
Use that language with her again, and you’ll end up with a broken jaw.
At the time, I’d swooned for his protectiveness. But now, I can’t stop thinking about the dangerous glint in his eyes. How his face had gone blank and unnervingly devoid of emotion.
My stomach is churning by the time the car stops in front of the powder blue house. I straighten my shoulders and force myself to walk at a normal pace. I climb the three steps up to the wooden porch and ring the doorbell.
I note that the lights aren’t on inside, but it’s still bright enough out that the sunshine illuminates the space. There’s a narrow, vertical window to the left of the front door. When no one answers the second ring of the bell, I press my face closer to the glass and peer inside.
I stop breathing. I recognize the painting that’s hanging in the front hall. It’s one of mine.
I swallow against the burn of bile at the back of my throat and reason that locals sometimes buy my art, not just tourists.
My footsteps are heavy with dread as I walk farther down the porch so that I can look into the larger window with a view into the living room.
My landscapes cover the walls. There must be a dozen of them crowding the small room.
Fear tingles down my spine.
This isn’t right. I don’t understand what’s happening, what this means.
A wild, reckless impulse overtakes me, and suddenly, there’s a rock in my hand. It smashes through the rectangular window beside the front door. I reach through the jagged hole I made and unlock the door from the inside. Broken glass scores my wrist, but I barely feel the sting of the cut.
I feel like I’m floating outside of my body, like this is happening to someone else.
The front door swings open, and I walk through the house in a daze, taking in my familiar style that’s mounted on every single white wall. Otherwise, the space is unfurnished except for a small kitchen table.
And the bedroom.
The cramped space is dominated by a king-size bed, but I can’t focus on that. More of my paintings hang on the walls. They’re all images of storms.
That’s why you favor the storms.
Dane knew so much about my work when we talked on the beach that day.
How did he know?
I sink down onto the mattress as my knees give out. My fists tangle in expensive sheets, as though I’m desperate to cling onto something solid, something real.
Because none of this seems real.
It can’t be.
I suck in three deep breaths and force myself to think. There’s nothing tying Dane to this place. Franklin thinks he’s seen him in the neighborhood, but that’s not proof that Dane lives here.
I grip the sheets more tightly, and my fingers clamp down on something soft and familiar.
A soft cry of pure horror bursts from my lips when I see my paint-splattered camisole in my fist. The one I thought I’d lost in the laundry.
Desperation claws at my insides, and I surge to my feet. A sort of fevered madness overtakes me, and I start tearing the room apart, as though I’ll uncover some secret that will make sense of everything.
I wrench open the nightstand drawer, and my heart skips a beat. My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch the black wool. Part of me hopes it’s a hallucination, but the material is all too real in my hands.
I stare down at the macabre skull that’s painted onto the black ski mask.
My brain blanks. My body goes numb.
I can’t process this. I can’t accept it.
“You shouldn’t be here, little dove.”
I whirl, and Dane is standing behind me. He’s covered in mud and something crimson that makes my stomach turn.
The man I love has blood on his face.
He’s here. In this awful shrine to me.
Little dove.
He’s never called me that before.
That’s GentAnon’s nickname for me.
“No.” My tremulous whisper is barely audible.
It’s him.
He’s my dark god.
He’s my online confidante.
He’s the masked man who violated me.
They’re all the same man. They’re all him.