Chapter 24 Ex Number Three #2
I uncork a bottle and as the wine pours, so does everything I’ve wanted to say to her over the past few months. We spend a lot of time chewing over my relationships with Marc and Luca at first, Claire asking questions, frozen panic on her face.
“You’re not going to report me, are you?” I ask.
She scoffs. “But, Natty…” She squeezes my hand and gives me a nervous look. “…I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.” My grip on her hand tightens, desperate for reassurance. “We’re ride or die, right? I mean, you always said you’d help me bury a body, no questions asked.”
Wine slips into the wrong stream on the way down. She splutters again. “That’s just something people say, Natty.”
“I know.”
“I guess there’s no actual body you’re asking me to bury, so thanks for sparing me that much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“And Emily…” She taps her phone screen to bring it to life, the time glaring up at her. “Does she…I mean, I assume you haven’t told her.”
“Of course not.”
“And are you going to?”
I pause, bite my lip, shake my head. “No. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Agreed.”
There’s a hesitant smile in her eyes, but it’s genuine, and it melts some of the tension. She can see me faltering, my energy dropping; she knows we can’t talk about this anymore tonight.
I double-tap my own phone screen to assess the time for myself. “Where is Emily anyway?”
A new message is waiting for me.
So sorry, babe, but I’m not sure I’ll get out of these drinks in time to make it. It was really nice to hear from you, though. Let’s get a catch-up bev in, just you and me, yeah? xx
The disappointment shouldn’t be so crushing.
“I don’t think she’s coming,” I say.
“Great. So that means I get you all to myself.”
And to steer me away from the impending sadness, she talks about literally anything else.
Starts to tell me about life after her graduation.
The new, if unimpressive, agent she’s signed with.
The manic pixie dream girl she’s grown bored of and plans to break up with.
And it feels like we’re Care and Natty again, gabbing about the good and bad stuff.
When the front door clicks open and shut, I’m fleetingly confused more than anything else.
An optimistic part of me wonders if Emily’s text was a misdirect so she could surprise me.
Has somehow let herself in. But then I recognize the familiar heavy footsteps in the hallway.
I hate that my body immediately goes rigid with fear.
Again, I’m reduced to being a quiet, fragile mess.
I hate this. I hate that he’s made me this.
He says nothing at first, just storms into the kitchen, eyes clearly scanning. They stop when they land on Claire and me, frozen. For a moment, he looks disappointed, but he soon finds his voice.
“What’s she doing here?”
“No ‘hello,’ then,” Claire says. I’m alarmed to see that her hackles are already up. I can almost hear her hissing.
“I thought you were going away for the weekend. I thought it might be nice to have some company.”
“Hi,” Claire says.
George quickly scans the room once more and then stares at me. “Trip’s canceled.”
It’s late and he stinks of beer, so he’s certainly been somewhere. But the timing, the expectant look he wore when he entered the room…I’m beginning to suspect that there was no trip, only a trap. Claire is not quite what he expected to catch in it.
“Who did you say you were going away with again?”
He ignores the question. “What are you up to?”
“She just told you, genius.” My sister jumps in.
“Anyway, I could ask you the same question,” I say, throwing myself into George’s crosshairs. I didn’t like the way he was glowering at Claire. But now I don’t like the way he’s glowering at me.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just…” I can’t keep letting these men make a fool of me. “It’s just a bit sus that you’ve announced this trip out of the blue and come home in the middle of the night on the first day, stinking of booze. Something isn’t adding up.”
He smiles, and I’m reminded that a smile can be ugly. “If anyone here is up to something, it’s you. Why would you sneak your sister into my house without telling me about it? What were you two talking about?”
Claire’s stool groans as she scrapes it back a few inches. She doesn’t actually stand, but every part of her body looks ready to spring up.
“What are you scared of her telling me?” she asks.
George glances between the two of us. “Seriously, Nat. What have you been saying?”
This isn’t how I want this to go. Sure, I can be brave, but not stupid. George is bigger than the both of us, drunk, and has already proven he’s capable of violence. “Why don’t you sleep this off, and—”
To my shock, he’s actually turning to leave the room, when—
“You’re lucky you’re not in prison right now,” Claire calls out.
“What?” He swivels around again, fresh anger in his eyes.
“I said you’re lucky. She told me what you did to her.” She finally stands, and her eyes are burning, too. “You deserve to fucking rot.”
His smile returns, although there’s no light behind it. “And what exactly is it that I’m meant to have done to Natalie?” He looks to me. “Well? What have you said?”
“It’s nothing. Go to bed, and we can—”
“It’s not ‘nothing.’ ” A crack echoes through the room as Claire slams her wineglass to the counter. A segment from the foot goes skidding across the marble counter. “You raped her.”
He actually laughs this time. My stomach gurgles like it’s alive. I feel physically sick, but in the churning of my guts, I can feel my monster waking.
“Is that funny to you?” Claire asks.
“Actually, it’s not. Not if you’re serious. Do you know what accusations like that can do to a guy’s life? Where are you getting this idea from?”
Again, he looks to me. I try to warn her. I say, “Care—”
But she doesn’t listen. “That trip. Just last weekend. She told you no and you forced yourself on her while she was sleeping.”
“Did she tell me to stop at any point?”
Claire glances at me. “No, but—”
“So what’s your point here?” He turns to me. “And what the fuck have you been telling people?”
I’m angry now. Angrier than I planned to be. “You hurt me, George. You know what you did.”
He laughs again and I find myself flexing my fingers as if to keep control of them. If I don’t think very consciously about keeping my hands still, I don’t know what they might do.
“Just because you like it a little rough sometimes—”
Hands move quicker than my brain does, a palm striking him across the cheek. Stupid, I know. He immediately lunges forward.
“How dare you—”
Claire steps between us, hands pushing his chest back. Well, as much as her small hands can. “Oi, back off.”
Hands move quicker than my brain does, George taking Claire by the shoulders and throwing her to the floor. She yelps and I want to cry again. The shove is rough, her body slamming into cabinets and rolling across the tiles. The tears are starting. I’ve done this to her; it’s my fault.
No.
It’s his.
My hand finds the segment of glass on the counter and I lash out with it.
I make contact. I wasn’t expecting to make contact.
There’s an angry red line across George’s cheek and shock on his face.
He’s stepped back once as a reflex to the pain, but once he sees my paltry weapon, he simply smacks it out of my hand.
“Care?” I ask.
She’s groaning, but angry. Body rocking like she’s aboard a ship, but rising nonetheless to throw herself once more at George.
George, in turn, is ready to lunge. I try to thrust myself between them, but George simply gives us both a rough shove with each hand.
My back cracks against the counter. I’m so focused on stopping George in his tracks that I don’t see Claire’s head make contact with the corner of the kitchen counter, hard.
Her crumpled body is still.
I can feel that George is ready to leap.
My hand roves behind me over the kitchen counter looking for new help.
The knife block. I’ve found the knife block, and I’ve found a handle, and George is suddenly lunging at me.
I draw the knife out. George draws his fist back. I feel the blow before I see it.
In fact, I’m not sure I see it at all.
The next thing I know, I’m coming to, my temple throbbing.
I can feel the cool tiles of the kitchen against my face, cold seeping through my clothes and into my bones.
It takes me a few seconds, but I manage to sit up, and when I do, I can see that George is right in front of me, slumped against a cabinet, the knife buried to the hilt in his chest.