Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Angie
I shake off the chill as best I can and turn back toward Ralph. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m not digging for anything.”
“Your sainted boyfriend isn’t who you think he is,” Ralph says.
I hate that Ralph makes me doubt Jason. But the truth is that I barely know him.
The thought rattles through my skull like a warning, but my heart doesn’t listen.
It never does. Not when he looks at me like I’m something rare, something breakable, something he wants to keep. Not when he tells me he loves me.
“I know exactly who Jason is,” I retort. “What I don’t understand is your need to hurt him.” I lean down, grab his shoulders. “For what, Ralph? Because I wouldn’t fuck you? Because I chose him over you?”
Ralph locks eyes with me, holding my gaze for what feels like an eternity. There’s something unreadable in his expression—hesitation, maybe, or quiet amusement. As if he’s caught between words he can’t quite find and a thought he isn’t ready to share.
“Why?” I demand again. “Why can’t you leave us both alone?”
He chuckles then, wincing at the pain in his face.
I can’t help a satisfied smile. I’ve never been one to revel in someone else’s pain, but I make an exception for Ralph.
“I don’t see anything funny from where I’m standing.” I point a finger directly in his smug face. “You told Jason he didn’t deserve me. Why? Why do you deserve me more than he does?”
“Oh, Angie,” he chuckles again. “Do you really think you mean anything to me beyond a fuck?”
His words jolt through me. I don’t care what Ralph thinks of me, but he’s being intentionally cruel. I stand my ground.
“Then why? If I’m nothing but a fuck to you, why do this to Jason? Why tell him he doesn’t deserve me?”
For the third time, he chuckles. “For the love of all things holy, you rich bitches are all the same.”
“Now you listen—”
He interrupts me, his voice bellowing. “No, you listen. You’re hot as hell, but I don’t give a shit about you or your money.
You think the world tilts on its axis just to keep you comfortable?
That every problem is some grand injustice against your privileged ass?
Open your eyes. Not everything is about you.
And the sooner you figure that out, the better. ”
“Then when you said…”
He closes his eyes. “Get the fuck out, Angie. If you’re not going to fuck me, get out. I’m done talking to you.”
I leave the room, slamming the door behind me.
I walk down the hallway, my boots clicking on the tile floor.
I wait at the elevator, and as the door finally opens and I step in, a whirlpool of emotions swallows me whole.
I lean against the cool metal wall and let out a shaky breath.
Seeing Ralph like that, the pain etched across his face yet his words harsh and unyielding, shook me more than it should have.
What am I not seeing here?
The elevator descends. I reach the lobby, stumble out, and make my way through the revolving doors and onto the street. The chill bites into my skin.
Ralph’s words continue to echo in my mind.
Open your eyes. Not everything is about you. And the sooner you figure that out, the better.
A gush of wind hits me. It’s so chilly it takes my breath away. I stuff my hands into my pockets and start walking back to the medical school. I can just make my afternoon class with Dr. Engel. Delving into psychiatry will help me forget Ralph and his vague accusations.
When I get to the classroom, though, the topic for discussion makes me want to hurl.
Narcissistic Personality Disorder, the slide reads, and Dr. Engel begins his lecture with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Often characterized by grandiosity, lack of empathy for other people, need for admiration, and attention-seeking behavior,” he says. “Sounds like someone you might know, doesn’t it? A family member, perhaps?” He chuckles to himself.
My heart pounds as I try to focus on anything but Ralph’s face and his harsh words. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake off his venomous remarks.
“Remember, these individuals often have a sense of entitlement and expect favorable treatment or automatic compliance with their expectations,” Dr. Engel continues. “They also have trouble handling criticism and may become impatient or angry when they don’t receive special treatment.”
Yeah, sounds a lot like someone I know. Someone whose hospital room I just visited.
“They can also be manipulative,” Dr. Engel says. “They exploit others without feeling guilt or remorse. They may belittle or look down on people they perceive as inferior. At the heart of such behavior often lies a fragile self-esteem, vulnerable to even the slightest criticism.”
His words mirror Ralph’s behavior with terrifying accuracy. My mind starts spinning, fear and anger and confusion all mixing into a nauseating swirl.
I pack my things and rush out of the classroom, ignoring Dr. Engel’s surprised look and the curious eyes of my classmates.
I need air. I need space to think.
The moment I step outside the building, I gulp down the cool air, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
Ralph doesn’t care what he’s doing to Jason. What he’s doing to me.
And he made it a point to tell me that not everything’s about me.
Oh my God.
Did he tell Jason that he specifically didn’t deserve me?
Or did he say something else?
Was he talking about someone else entirely?
I walk quickly to my car and drive home. I park and then walk the few feet to Jason’s door, pound on it.
“Jason!” I call out.
There’s no response, and my heart thumps wildly against my ribcage.
“Jason, please!”
I try the doorknob, expecting it to be locked as usual when Jason isn’t around. To my surprise, it turns easily under my grip, the door swinging open to reveal the darkened interior of Jason’s townhome.
“Jason?” I call again, stepping inside.
I flick on the light switch by the door. He’s not in the living room, nor the kitchen. I make my way toward his bedroom, trying not to think about what I might find.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. I push it open gently and peer inside. The room is neat, the bed made. Of course. He slept with me last night.
I turn around and walk back to the living room, my thoughts racing. Where could he be? I pull out my phone and call him. It goes straight to voicemail, his message grating on my nerves.
“Hey, it’s Jason. Can’t get to my phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
I end the call and try again, with the same result.
“Don’t panic,” I tell myself aloud. “He’s probably just busy.”
Doing what, though? He has no job.
I sit down on his couch, the worn leather cool against my skin. I stare at the photo of Lindsay and Julia, captured in time.
I jerk when the door opens and Jason appears.
“Jason, thank God!”
“Angie?” He widens his eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Your door was unlocked.”
“Jesus.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I had to meet Blake at the police station and answer more questions. I was in a hurry, and I must have… Damn. That’s not like me at all.”
“Everything looks fine,” I say. “But Jason, I have to talk to you. About Ralph.”
“Did you see him today?” he demands.
“I… Well, yeah, I went to see him, and—”
He lunges toward me and grips my shoulders hard. “Don’t you ever go back there again, Angie, do you hear me?”
“I…”
“I’m serious. Don’t you ever go near Ralph again. Not ever.”
“Jason, why are you being so…”
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in, and sighs it out. He opens his eyes, looking at me more gently now. “I have to talk to you about Ralph.”
“Oh? I have to talk to you about Ralph too. I think he has narcissistic personality disorder.” I hold up my hand. “And before you tell me you don’t want to hear about psychiatry, let me—”
He places his fingers over my lips. “I believe you, Angie. I understand mental illness. I just don’t believe talk therapy is the way.
At least it wasn’t for me. And for the record, I agree with you.
Ralph has a personality disorder. In fact, his entire personality itself—or at least his identity—is completely fabricated. He’s not who he says he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ralph isn’t Ralph. His real name is Ronny Burgundy.” He swallows. “And I think he killed my wife.”