Chapter 47
The red wine swirls in my glass while I sit perched on a barstool behind the peninsula countertop, surveying the space.
When I returned from the bathroom, Rosa practically shoved it into my hand.
She poured it into one of those large plastic wineglasses that have cheesy wine puns on them like Cabernet? More like Caber-yay!
“This Airbnb is cute,” I comment. Sort of a staged-and-beiged vibe.
It’s probably an interior design style with one of those oxymoron names like boho luxe, which really just means there’s a macramé wall tapestry on an overpriced stick hanging somewhere on the premises.
“I figured you were staying at the Sable.”
“Nah, I just like their cocktails. My company is way too cheap to spring for five-star hotels.” Rosa stands in front of the open fridge. “Should I make a cheese plate? I’ve got some leftover Brie and apples from the other day.”
“That sounds excellent!” I haven’t eaten yet today and was a little disappointed when she said we weren’t going to happy hour because I had my heart set on some appetizers. I’m starving.
She pulls out the ingredients and begins chopping up the apples. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, no, I’ve got this!” she replies.
This wine is sweet—almost too sweet, and slightly . . . metallic? I’m not even through my first glass and can already feel the warmth spreading into my limbs. “What kind of wine is this again?” I ask, glancing down at my phone and checking the text I sent to Logan.
“Uh, Summer Rhino or something? Okay, let’s get back to your story!”
That’s when I notice the little plane icon in the upper corner of my screen. Did Rosa put my phone on airplane mode? Logan is probably losing his damn mind. I take it off and see a bunch of missed calls and texts.
“Oh shit. I gotta call Logan and let him know we didn’t end up going to a restaurant. If I don’t, he’ll burn down the city.”
“Seriously?” She spins around with the knife in her hand, waving it around while she speaks. “Yes, I mind! You just got here! What, he can’t go two damn minutes without knowing exactly where you are? I told you, he’s controlling!”
Whoa.
“I just don’t want him to worry.” Why is she so upset about this? I appreciate her concern; if a friend told me the same story, I’d have some reservations too. But I know Logan better than she does. He’s my best friend. “I promise, he’d never hurt me.”
She grumbles something under her breath, but I don’t hear it.
“Don’t call him!” she spits, pointing the knife in my direction. I really wish she would put that thing down. “I will drop you off at his place in like an hour. He can go without you until then.”
I hold my hands up and set my phone on the counter in an attempt to de-escalate whatever the hell is going on right now.
“Okay, you’re right, you’re right.” My foot bumps into one of the suitcases neatly lined up under the countertop, and when I slide them aside with my foot, one of them falls over.
“Shit. Sorry about that.” I climb off my barstool, my head feeling heavier than usual, and stand the suitcase back up in line with the others. They still have the Bozeman baggage tags on them, but the date of the flight is all wrong; this is old.
“No worries!” she replies “Okay. Storytime. Go.”
I push the suitcase next to the others and that’s when I notice the ID tag. The neatly penned capital letters are right there, clear as day.
Piper Nygaard.
Not Rosa, Piper.
Piper who is supposed to be dead.
Piper who tried to kill my dad.
Piper who killed her own fucking dog.
My breaths come faster as my heart slams against my rib cage. She’s my stalker. I walked right into this. I have to stay calm.
“Hey, do you mind if I snoop around a little first? I love these little places.”
“Go for it.”
I take a step toward the living room; I need to get to the door. My limbs are sluggish and heavy. There’s no way one glass would do this.
She spins around, holding the wine bottle. “Need a top-off?” she asks.
I flinch, pausing midstep, and blink at her—looking my stalker right in the eye. “I’m good, thanks,” I answer brightly, padding out of the room. I brace the wall for support. Oh fuck.
Focus. Just get out. One step in front of the other. I glimpse behind me to make sure she’s not watching before I wrap my hand around the door handle.
The door creaks like a banshee when I pull it open, and her footsteps have my insides plummeting.
“Where are you going?” she barks, suddenly much closer to me and still holding that fucking knife.
My stomach sinks, and I swallow. I wave her off. “Just needed some air, this wine is hitting me.” I can’t tell her I know, not while she’s holding that damn paring knife.
She sighs. “Look, I’m really sorry about the phone thing.
Why don’t you just sit back down in the kitchen.
You can video chat with him and let him know you’ll be home in an hour.
” The cadence of her speech is strange, like she’s trying too hard to seem casual.
“I didn’t mean to be all crazy about it.
” Crazy? No, crazy is impulsively tattooing your forehead.
She’s way beyond that. I’m waiting for this lady to turn into Kathy Bates and Misery me.
“Okay.” I give her a tight smile and nod.
“Come on,” she says. “Come back and sit down.”
She wants me to contact him through video chat so she can listen to our conversation and make sure I don’t say anything I’m not supposed to.
I nod and follow her back to the kitchen, plucking a potted plant from one of the tables on my way. I set it on the counter in front of me and lean my phone against it. My hand shakes when I hit the video call icon near Logan’s name.
He answers immediately. “Jesus Christ! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
Rosa leans against the countertop with her arms crossed as she watches me closely.
I clear my throat and drop my eyes to my phone screen. “Yeah, sorry I missed your calls. I’m just with Rosa at the house she’s renting. We’re having some wine.” I hold up the glass.
That must appease her because she turns her back to me and begins slicing through the Brie.
I blink and my body sways. Fuck. Keep it together. Then it hits me.
“Rosa is making us a snack, but what do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask while signing “help.”
He cocks an eyebrow, and I shake my head while placing my index finger over my lips.
“How does tofu sound?” he asks. I hate tofu. He knows I hate tofu.
“I’d love that. Maybe a stir-fry?” I nod to him.
“What do you want on the side?” he asks.
My thoughts are already foggy and now I’m trying to speak two different languages at the same fucking time.
I relax my shoulders. The more relaxed I am, the easier the words will come.
Not to mention my dexterity is clumsier, thanks to whatever drug is coursing through my system.
“Carrots,” I say, while trying to remember the street name. The image of the sign flashes in my mind and I spell letters with my fingers “H-A-R-T-F-O-R-D.”
“What else?” he asks. I think I see his pulse ticcing through the phone.
“Zucchini.” It was Hartford and Third. I hold up my thumb, index, and middle finger, and twist my wrist for “Third.”
“I’ll pick some up from the store,” he says. “Anything else you want?”
“Um . . .” I try to think of the house number, but I can’t picture it. Fuck, how do I tell him where I am? Damn it, I can’t even think of stir-fry ingredients to keep this bullshit conversation going.
“Mushrooms?” he asks.
“Yes! Mushrooms!” I press my index finger to my chin and curl it twice— “Red.” Then I lift my hands, press my fingertips together in the shape of a roofline, dragging them down and apart at an angle, then straight down. “House. Red house.”
There were a few red houses on this block; he won’t know which one. I try to remember anything unique about the exterior. I sign the letter B, then twist my wrist twice. “Blue.”
“I can do that. When do you think you’ll be home?” he asks.
I pinch my fingers together in front of my mouth. “Bird.”
“Maybe an hour,” I reply out loud.
Logan quickly signs back, “What is blue bird? Street?”
I shake my head in reply.
My thoughts are fuzzy, and I lean forward on the counter to keep from falling off my stool. Every blink becomes heavier.
How do I sign drugged?
I don’t remember, so instead I sign poison.
“I can pick you up so she doesn’t have to take you?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Ask Rosa for the address.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. I’ve never seen Logan scared until this moment. It’s strange seeing someone you’ve known for years exhibit a new expression. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him anxious. But fear . . . Fear is new.
“P-I-P-E—”
I’m so focused on his face that I don’t realize she’s turned around. Rosa—Piper—whoever the fuck she is—sweeps her arm across the counter. My phone, the potted plant, and the glass of wine are flung off the tabletop and land with a huge crash on the floor. The screen on my phone goes black.
“You were signing my name!” she screams.
It’s pointless, but I deny it anyway. “What are you talking about?” My words are weak.
Her laugh is unnatural. “Did you think I wouldn’t fucking know sign language? He was my fiancé!”
Then she signs something to me; she’s faster than I am. I only pick up a couple words, but I think she’s signing, “You think you were the first woman he taught how to sign?”
What a cunt.
“What else did you tell him?” she screams.
“Nothing!” I shake my head. “Nothing!”
She shoves me and I lose balance, tumbling off the barstool.
My hands shoot out to catch myself, and one lands on one of the broken pieces of the terra-cotta planter, slicing my palm and bleeding from the cut.
That’s not good. It doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should.
Whatever she drugged me with is dulling my senses.
“Wwhhat d-did you put in my wine?” Glancing over to the counter, I notice she hasn’t taken a sip from her glass.
It’s hard to know whether she actually poisoned me, but I’m not in pain, just sleepy. So I’m hoping it’s only a sedative. A really strong sedative.
She’s still screeching and yelling about something, something about telling him where we are and how stupid I am.
If she’s this mad, I figure it’s a good sign.
I did something she wasn’t planning. Part of me wants to stay calm, and the other part wonders if I focus on how fucking terrified I am, if the adrenaline will keep me conscious long enough for him to get here.
Her voice goes between shrill and echoing like she’s far away.
I ignore whatever she’s yelling and try to focus on staying awake. Logan will come for me. I just need to stay awake until he arrives.
Blood leaks freely onto the floor, the edges of the puddle slowly growing wider; it’s the first time I’ve bled this much.
Not a huge puddle, but last I checked, blood doesn’t pool when things are going well.
I stare at the rich-red color, it’s the same color as the dress Logan bought me.
The floor slowly tilts, but the puddle stays the same size and shape.
It doesn’t drip even though the white tiles on the kitchen floor seem to be stretched at an angle.
“He’s going to be mad at you,” I say, my words running together, and I reach for the white suitcases, grasping the tag.
There’s a flash of white before pain flares at the base of my skull, but it doesn’t last.