19. Melody
Melody
D ante swings open the door with annoyance. I gasp at the sight of Detective Ella, who hones her vision in on me.
"Hello, Melody. Congratulations on the wedding." She doesn't sound very happy for us. She sounds harsh, hateful. It makes my skin crawl as I join my husband in the doorway.
"Um, thank you. What are you doing here?" I ask timidly.
"Noise disturbance. A neighbor called. May I come in?" Ella peeks around me, taking in the view of our living room.
"Do you have a warrant?" Dante steps between me and the policewoman. God, he's practically snarling at her like a junkyard dog.
"Why would I need a warrant? I'm visiting an alleged victim of a crime." Ella puffs out her chest and leans in closer to Dante. "And investigating a noise disturbance."
"Then no the fuck you cannot come in. You have the wrong house. Bye, now." Dante slams the door shut, but Ella blocks it with her shoe.
"Melody, didn't you say this man was stalking you?" She leers around Dante's shoulder and smiles at me. There's no joy in her expression. There's no compassion. Only malice. "Do you think you might be paranoid? I'd suggest seeing a therapist about that."
"If you speak another word to my wife, I'll have you so wrapped up in legal tape you won't be able to breathe," Dante growls. Actually growls! And for some reason, that lights my insides ablaze. My feral man. Shit, I might actually like him.
"No need for that, Mr. Lyons. Enjoy your day. Just remember, we have wings everywhere." Ella removes her shoe from the door and walks away, whistling like some fucking weirdo from a movie.
Dread roils around in my gut, and I can feel my breathing quicken.
Fuck. Fuck. Wings? What does that mean? Why was she here?
Does she know about Chicago? God, I practically gave her my life story.
It feels like so long ago, but it was only a few months.
Shit. What if they're the ones who hacked our phones? What if I'm the weakness?
I'm practically hyperventilating when my husband turns to me with wide eyes.
"Hey, hey. None of that now," Dante coos and pulls me in close. "I can practically see your thoughts on your face. You're here. You're mine. You're safe."
Tears well up, stinging my eyes. Safe . I want to believe him.
But if I'm the vulnerability, none of us are safe.
I could black out again. I could lose time again.
I could lead them straight to us. If they catch me at the wrong time, I could tell them my secrets—our secrets—and have no idea I'd even spoken.
"But what if I'm not? What if I have one of my, uh, episodes?" I sniffle into his shirt collar.
"When's the last time you had one of those? Not the murderous urges—the ones where you freeze. Where you lose yourself?" He cups the back of my head and nuzzles into my hair.
Now that I think about it, it has been a while. I know I'm not cured. I know that's not how mental health, or whatever this is, works. Shit, maybe Ella's right. Maybe I do need a therapist. That's a heartbreaking thought.
"I don't know. It's been a while," I say with another sniffle.
"Melody, love. I'm going to say something, and please know that this is only because I need you to be safe." He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. "Please, stay in the house. Just for a bit. Just until we can get this taken care of."
Immediately, I want to fight. I want to argue, I want to yell. I want to tell him to fuck himself. But the rational side of my brain knows he's right. And I hate it.
"Fine. Promise."
Helena and I sit in the kitchen, sketching the bowl of fruit on the counter. I made an off-handed comment about wanting to learn to draw around Dante, and the next thing I knew, he'd practically bought out an art supply store. Helena, being the good sport she is, decided to learn with me.
Her presence puts me at ease. I know she's paid to be around me, to keep me safe—and I know she's lethal. But I finally got her to actually talk to me, and it feels more like having a built-in friend than a bodyguard. It's nice.
"Your banana looks better than mine," Helena says with a frown.
"That's funny. I actually hate bananas."
"Really? They're my favorite." She plucks the banana out of the bowl and peels it gently before taking a monster bite, laughing as she chews.
I want to laugh with her, but my stomach lurches as I watch her eat the vile fruit. My eyes water. "Oh, fuck."
Helena looks stunned as I race off to the bathroom, emptying my stomach of our breakfast. Tears gather at the corner of my eyes, and I groan pitifully.
"Should I call Dante?" Helena appears at the bathroom door, looking concerned.
"No," I gasp and retch again. "No. Please. I'm fine."
She's already on the phone before I can duck my head back down into the porcelain.
Overcome with exhaustion, I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and slump onto the cold tile floor.
Cold is good. Cold feels wonderful. It's soothing on my sweat-drenched self.
I didn't even know I was sweating until this very moment.
"I hate this," I whisper to myself. I've always been a bit of a wimp about vomiting.
My mom always said I'd grow out of it, but I never did.
Holy shit, I'm so tired. My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds.
I want to keep them open, but I'm quickly losing that fight.
Is it pathetic to fall asleep on the bathroom floor after puking up my guts? Probably. But I don't really care.
Unfortunately, sleep isn't an option. Helene reappears and jiggles my shoulder, whispering to me that Dante is on the phone.
"Melody? What's going on? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Dante's voice is slightly muffled as Helena positions the phone to my ear.
"Hi Dante," I mumble. "No, I'm okay. Super sleepy. I'm gonna take a nap."
"I can have a doctor at the house in thirty minutes. Promise me you'll tell me if you need it."
"Pinky promise," I giggle and hold out my pinky to Helena. She sighs and hooks her pinky around mine with an exasperated smile.
I felt Dante crawl into bed sometime in the night.
I couldn't bear to look at the clock. A whole day wasted, just because I got a little pukey.
Pathetic. He must have sensed my internal grumbling because he threw his arm around me and pulled me in tight.
I don't remember when I got back to sleep, but I wake up in the morning feeling entirely refreshed.
"How's the nausea, love?" Dante croaks as I shimmy out from his grasp.
"Totally better, thanks. I told you I was fine." I select a comfortable flowy skirt—black with burgundy florals, of course—and a V-neck tee shirt for the day. It's not high fashion, but it's certainly nicer than anything I would have worn back before Dante.
He groans and looks at the clock, rubbing his face at the time. We really do have a nice routine going. He goes to work, I stay home and hang out with Helena. And, of course, he fucks the life out of me whenever I ask.
I plod my way into the bathroom and stare at the industrial-sized pack of ovulation test strips while I pee.
I don't like them. I don't like the idea of tracking this so meticulously.
At least he hasn't peeked into the little journal I'm supposed to use.
I'll bear his child, I'll do all the things I'm supposed to do, but I'll do this shit my way.
And my way includes fucking his lights out at every given opportunity. It doesn't have to include feeling like a lab rat.
My line of vision keeps drifting back to the test strips and the box of pregnancy tests in the little shelf alcove built into the tastefully tiled walls.
It's only been a month since the appointment with Doctor Hamish, but I am getting closer to my next period.
I think. I had it all tracked on my phone, nice and neat in a little app, but then Dante and Roman went beast mode on my phone when we got hacked.
And then Ella showed up out of nowhere. It can't be a coincidence.
A shiver rolls down my spine as I brush my teeth, thinking about the cops watching our every move.
They have to know something. I don't know if they've completely figured out my connection to Chicago, a brutal murder, and a missing woman.
Not to mention the handful of missing men here in Philly.
Dante assures me that everything is taken care of.
He tells me not to worry. He tells me to focus on whatever I want to do.
Sit tight and wait to get pregnant, basically.
But I can't just sit here and twiddle my thumbs, running through every possible scenario leading to my future arrest. Sure, he has resources and connections.
But can he get me off a murder charge? Multiple murder charges?
"I want to learn how to shoot," I announce as I exit the bathroom. Dante looks up from lacing his leather dress shoes, with his jet-black hair fallen into his eyes.
"Really? Why's that?" He slicks his hair back, but it falls again. I hate how cute it looks.
"Someone bugged our phones. The cops came sniffing around shortly after we got rid of them. I don't trust it. What if something happens, and Helena isn't here? Roman isn't here? You're not here?" The panicked questions fall rapid-fire from my lips, and I realize I'm sweating a little bit.
"That won't happen," he quips back. "We have the best physical security money can buy."
"I don't care. You want me to get pregnant?
You want me to carry your fucking heir? I want a gun, and I want to learn how to use it.
" I cross my arms and look down at him. Schooling my face into an intimidating expression, I glare with all the rage I can muster.
But my stomach growls at the most inopportune moment, and he chuckles.
"Fine. You can learn in the basement. Helena will teach you." He stands and readjusts his tucked-in shirt. "You'll start tomorrow. By the end of the month, I want you to be able to plug someone between the eyes from fifty meters."
"Someone?" I'm intrigued. "Anyone in mind?"
"That's to be decided."
My stomach still feels a bit queasy as Helena adjusts my stance and extends my arms.
"It's going to be loud. Louder than you think. And the kickback will surprise you," she says. "Don't hit yourself in the face. Dante will have my head."
I nod and remember everything she told me.
Legs apart, one in front of the other, slightly bent.
I wrap my hand around the grip and stabilize the gun with the other.
The basement isn't a replacement for a shooting range, but it's big enough for me to give some targets acute lead poisoning.
Helena pokes my arm into the proper position—again—and slips protective earmuffs around my head.
"Three, two, one, go." She commands, and I exhale, pulling the trigger.
Bang!
"Oh fuck," I gasp out. The kickback feels insane—how am I ever going to be able to do this properly? With shaking hands, I click on the safety and inspect my target. I didn't even come close . Helena's laughing and pointing at the concrete wall where I've lodged the stupid bullet.
"Okay, so, good first try. But you're trying to hit there , not here." She points to the target, which looks like a pleather-wrapped couch cushion, and back over to the wall. My cheeks flush red, and I stare at the floor. Fuck.
I can't do this. What if I can never do this? What if something happens, and I can't defend myself? What if I'm caught by the cops? What if I'm the reason we all go down? Because I can't shoot a stupid gun?
"Oh—oh, shit. Melody, I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to upset you," Helena apologizes with concern. She gently removes the ear protection and hands me a tissue from her pocket. I didn't even realize I was crying.
"I feel so stupid," I confess as I wipe my tears away. "You're so good at this."
"I was in the military for a decade, babe. You weren't. There's no reason to compare yourself to me. What's that saying? Comparison is the death of joy? Something like that." She pats my shoulder. "You'll get better, you just need to practice."
Even though the contents of my stomach threaten to make an appearance, I swallow hard and steel my nerves. "You're right. Let's go again."
Half-deaf and thoroughly frustrated, I emerge from the basement with Helena in tow. Marie gives us a sideways glance and gestures towards bowls of fruit and yogurt on the kitchen island.
"I don't mean to be rude, miss. But could you please warn me if you're going to be shooting in the basement? I nearly broke the fruit bowl diving for cover." Marie offers a tight smile, and I feel even worse.
"I'm so sorry—I didn't think. Of course, Marie.
I'm sorry. Really." I look down at the yogurt bowl with tears in my eyes.
Marie artfully drizzled honey over slices of strawberry and cantaloupe with a dusting of granola.
Usually, I'd be wolfing it down. But I don't think I can manage to choke it down today.
Taking a test bite, my stomach instantly revolts, and I drop the spoon back down. "Ugh."
"Something wrong?" Helena asks, taking a massive bite of the snack.
"I don't know. Maybe I'm just mad. I can't eat it." I rub my eyes and slump forward onto the cool granite countertop.
"Has the yogurt gone bad? The strawberries? I didn't smell anything off," Marie asks, bustling over to inspect the bowl.
"Tastes fine to me," Helena assures her. "Tastes great to me, actually."
"Maybe I've still got that stomach bug?"
The two women turn to stare at me silently. I feel my cheeks flush again, all the way to the tips of my ears. "What?"
"Melody," Helena says carefully. "Don't take this the wrong way. But, um, no one else in the house has gotten sick. I've been with you all day, every day. Eating the same things as you. Drinking the same things as you, mostly."
"Uh huh?" I don't see where she's going.
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Melody, dear, have you taken a test?" Marie tosses her hand towel onto the counter exasperatedly.
"What test?"
"A pregnancy test!" both of the women exclaim in unison.
Oh, fuck.