26. In Which Aiden Loses Shakespeare #2
“Juniper?” I say as she lurches dazedly into the bathroom, only barely missing the doorframe.
But she doesn’t answer; she just closes the door behind her, and I look back to my book.
We haven’t reached the converse-through-the-bathroom-door stage of our relationship yet.
So I once more turn to my reading, trying to focus.
And I try hard. I cross my legs. Uncross them.
Rest my ankle over my knee. I even manspread for a bit.
But no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable.
And it’s not because my body is restless, either; it’s my mind.
Pretentious as it might be, Shakespeare never fails to grab my attention.
But tonight he’s falling short, and my brain is jumping to every whispered shadow I see, startling at the most innocuous of sounds.
The slam of the neighbor’s car door, a dog barking, the refrigerator running; they all make me jump out of my skin.
I’m on edge.
Why am I on edge?
When I hear the sound of the front door lurching open, honest to goodness, I almost wet myself.
“Caroline,” I mutter, saying her name like a curse as I stand.
“Not Caroline.”
Two words, spoken in a soft voice. Friendly, even. But the hair stands up on the back of my neck, and it feels like someone has poured ice water into my lungs.
I hold back my sigh. I’m so dang tired; I do not need this today.
I look around grudgingly, hunting for anything that could be used as a weapon. My gaze scans the room and finds exactly nothing of use—why have I filled this home with unhelpful items like books and pillows and lamps?—so I turn on my heel to go to the kitchen instead.
Except my path has already been blocked—by Rocco freaking Astor .
My psycho murderous coworker, in my living room, holding—holding—is that a knife?
“Holy crap,” I say without thinking as my eyes narrow in on that blade. “Are you gonna stab me? Seriously ?”? *
All right. I would not be a good hostage negotiator.
But Rocco just barks a laugh, a sardonic, wheezing sound, before holding the knife up. It’s not huge, but it doesn’t need to be; that’s four inches of razor-sharp metal that will pop me like a balloon. Crap. I am not prepared for this.
“Hey,” I say, holding my hands up. “Let’s slow down, okay? That’s a pretty creepy knife you’re pointing at me. Can you put that away?”
“Sorry,” Rocco says with a shrug as he steps closer.
“But no.” Then he sighs, and it’s the craziest thing I think I’ve ever seen; he’s looking at me like he always does.
He looks completely normal, he sounds completely normal—except there’s a knife in his hand, and he’s very plainly threatening me with it. “But I told you, didn’t I?”
I clear my throat, shuffling backward toward the kitchen. “Told me what?”
Another laugh, casual and breezy. “I told you to stay out of it. I told you to stay away from my brother.” His smile vanishes as his eyes turn pleading. “Why didn’t you listen?”
And Rocco’s not a huge man, but something about the knife in his hand has elevated him to giant status.
There’s also an uncomfortable feeling he’s giving off that makes me want to keep my distance even more—a weird cloud of chaos floating around him, like the dirt that surrounds Pigpen in the Charlie Brown comics.
I skirt further back, trying to move slowly so I don’t set him off.
“Why didn’t you listen?” Rocco says again. His eyes, the same blue as Juniper’s, swim with unshed tears. “I like you, Aiden. You’re a great guy.”
Insane. He’s insane. And—holy crap—he might be my father-in-law one day.
My panicking brain takes this thought and runs with it. MY FATHER-IN-LAW IS INSANE , it screams. WHAT SORT OF FAMILY ARE WE MARRYING INTO?
No. Focus.
“Where is she?” Rocco goes on, wiping his eyes with the hand that isn’t holding the knife.
“I like her too. This is so sad. Where is she? Her car was here.” He steps sideways and flings open my bedroom door, glancing inside only briefly before moving to the door of the coat closet.
He throws that door open too, swearing under his breath when he sees the rows of jackets and piles of shoes.
My heart thunders in my chest as his eyes land on the bathroom door—behind which I know he’ll find Juniper, though I don’t know what she’s been doing in there all this time. I can only hope she’s heard what’s going on and is preparing herself.
Rocco grasps the doorknob and eases the door open, giving it a nudge so that it swings wide. He sticks his head in; I shuffle hastily to the side so I can see too.
And there, sitting on the toilet, naked as the day she was born from the waist down with her pants around her feet, is Juniper.
And she’s asleep.
That stupid sleep medicine. Why did I recommend it tonight, of all nights? Her head is propped in her hands, elbows on her knees, and she’s snoring slightly, her mouth gaping open.
“Juniper!” I shout, turning my body and slipping my hand into my pocket for my phone.
Juniper startles awake in a flurry of chaos, blinking rapidly and looking completely out of it. She peers up at Rocco and I, frowning. Then she reaches one hand out.
“Papa?”
Rocco yelps and scrambles backward, slamming the door shut, breathing hard, looking horrified.
For one eternal second, there’s complete silence, broken only by the sound of our breathing and Juniper’s clumsy stumbling on the other side of the door.
Then Rocco rounds on me. My breath catches in my throat at the look on his face, and in that moment, it finally becomes real—it finally becomes undeniable.
This man is a killer.
Gone are the tears; gone are the twinkling eyes. No smile, no amusement. Just cold indifference and a maniacal gaze. He advances on me, the knife raised?—
Just as Juniper bursts out of the bathroom.
“Hey!” she shouts drunkenly, jabbing her finger in Rocco’s direction as she stumbles toward him. “Hey. When someone is naked on the toilet, you don’t just burst in. That’s rude. It’s rude! ”? *
Rocco swivels away from me, holding the knife up in her direction instead. She gasps when she sees it.
“Hey,” she says again. “Hey?—”
I yell an incoherent warning as Rocco takes a swipe at her. But her addled state has rendered her slow, and she doesn’t move in time—I watch with horror as the knife slices her upper arm. It begins bleeding immediately, and for a second, Juniper just stares at it in shock.
She blinks once. Twice. And then she looks back at Rocco.
“Hey!” she screams—and I do mean screams . “I am the fruit of your womb! You can’t stab me— give me that. Give me that!” She rushes at him, reaching for the blade with her bare hand, grabbing it and wrenching it from his grasp, which is clearly limp from shock.
Drug-addled Juniper is not the brightest Crayon in the box, but I’ll give her this: she’s fearless.
The whole scene plays out strangely. It’s not like an action sequence from a movie; there’s nothing rehearsed or choreographed or smooth about what’s happening.
There’s no intense background music, no theatrical lighting.
It’s all chaos and shouts and confusion by the light of my reading lamp.
I’m screaming at Juniper not to grab a knife by the blade with her bare hand, Juniper is screaming at Rocco about how good fathers don’t try to murder their daughters, and Rocco is looking more and more confused by the second as his head whips back and forth between the two of us.
There’s blood everywhere on Juniper—streaming from her hand, staining her shirt—and tears are streaking down her face.
“You killed them!” Juniper screams, dropping the knife and cradling her sliced hand to her chest. “People died! Get out. Get out! You’re not welcome in this house!”
“Ope,” I say quickly, holding my hands up. Then I look at Juniper. “Absolutely support you in however you choose to involve your father in your life, but we do sort of need him to stay here until the police come.”
“Oh,” she says, blinking at me. “Are the police coming?”
I glance at Rocco, whose face is running a wide gamut of colors and emotions. “I called them when we were bursting in on you in the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she says. “Okay.”
Rocco resembles nothing so much as a cornered animal now. He lunges for the knife on the floor, but Juniper turns and grabs from behind her the bust of Shakespeare that sits on my bookshelf.
My lovely, expensive, very heavy bust of Shakespeare.
I know a moment of both regret and relief—regret for the Bard, relief for my girlfriend—as Juniper brings the bust down on Rocco’s head just as he’s scrambling to his feet, knife in hand. It connects with his skull, giving a sickening crunch , and he falls immediately to the floor—still and silent.
“William,” I say faintly to the blood-smeared bust, cracked in half on the floor. “Did you kill my father-in-law?” I’m not sure I’m completely in my right mind anymore; in fact, I can feel my hands and legs shaking. I think I’m probably going into shock.
Juniper falls clumsily to the floor, buries her face in her hands, and begins to sob.
In the distance, sirens sound.
Everything happens in a blur after that.
Sheriff Garrity sends an unconscious Rocco Astor away in an ambulance, handcuffed to a stretcher and escorted by three policemen.
Lionel Astor shows up some fifteen minutes later, dressed in suit pants and a white shirt despite the late hour, with several lawyers in tow.
I guess he’s keen to keep quiet all news about his little brother.
I didn’t even know he knew where we live.
He bustles around, speaking in clipped tones to the various people who are transforming our house into an official crime scene.
I think this must be every single officer the sheriff has; I’ve never seen this many people with him.
They all watch Lionel with looks of mingled irritation and respect as he does his thing, probably stepping on toes left and right .