Chapter 51 Now
Now
We stare each other down, unmoving. I’m surprised by the strength of my fury. Because Marc, Luca, George, James…Their betrayal is one thing. But Dimple betraying me is another entirely. That anger helps me spit the next words out clearly.
“There’s a number that James has been calling and calling for weeks. Long conversations. A supplier, he said.”
Understanding darkens her features.
“But that’s your number.”
As I stare into her blank face, I have to wonder how much of her stoicism in our sessions has been a professional resoluteness and how much an indication of something absent in her. Something very wrong.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you. What to tell you,” she says.
I find myself slowly backing away, Dimple’s former sense of safeness swept away by the sense of something sinister.
“Are…are you sleeping with James?”
She cocks her head, a gesture so classically Dimple but eerily uncanny in this moment as the person before me morphs into a stranger. It’s clear she’s still assessing me. She takes a sudden step forward, and my tightly wound panic springs free.
“Natalie—”
I don’t wait to hear more. Simply turn, spring out of the bedroom, race down the stairs, Dimple’s footsteps behind me. I snatch my coat from the banister, knowing my keys are inside, and bolt out the door.
“Natalie!” Although it’s still morning, rain clouds have made the sky evening dark. I didn’t realize I was running into a downpour, but it seems I’ve a habit of running into things unprepared. Rain beats into my face, icy, as my feet slap against wet concrete.
“Natalie! If you just stop, I’ll tell you everything,” Dimple yells. “Don’t you want to know the truth?”
I want to get away from her, but I do want to know. Am desperate, even. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see she’s stopped running. See there’s a safe distance between us. I slow. Stop.
She removes her rain-fogged glasses and slips them into a pocket. A moment of relief washes over her, eyes closing for a micro rest before fluttering open.
“I’m just getting a little closer, so I don’t have to yell,” she says, taking very slow, deliberate steps in my direction, palms raised to face me.
Some wet hair has fallen over her furrowed brow.
The locks are coiling in on themselves, revealing a curl pattern I’ve never seen before.
The only time I’ve seen curls in her hair is when they’ve clearly come from a wand.
Glasses discarded and hair curling up, she’s transformed.
That feeling of familiarity returns, only this time it feels more like recognition. I’m transfixed.
“What?” she asks. “Have I got something on my face?” The tight smile she tries to float the sentence on fails to add the levity I think she intends.
“Your hair” is all I say.
Surprise flickers across her face. “Oh. Oh yeah. It does that when it’s wet.”
“Dimple, I swear to god, if you don’t just get to the point…
” That sense of familiarity intensifies the closer she gets.
A visceral dread builds with every moment, but I want to push on, know more.
I’m the girl in the horror movie, hand reaching for the handle of the closed basement door, eyes welling with tears, a scream building in my throat, but still, I push the door open.
“What the hell is going on? How do you and James know each other?”
She takes a deep breath.
“It’s not James I’m connected to. It’s never been about James. It’s always been about you.”