Chapter 21 Nicola #3
“You’re making it sound like you knew he was guilty before you even arrived in town,” I joke, but the expression that crosses her face makes it clear that it’s no joke.
“I suspected. I didn’t know for sure until that night, though.”
It’s like all my darkest fears have been confirmed. “So, you really were using me all along? You pretended to be my friend to get closer to my father?”
“No!” she exclaims. “No, that’s not it at all. When I saw you for the first time…” Her words fade, and a flush rises in her cheeks.
“What?”
“I never wanted you involved in the show. I was fairly certain that your dad was guilty, so I figured it would be better to keep you as far away from the investigation as possible. But then I saw you at the hardware store…”
She lifts her hands helplessly, as if to say, what else could I do?
“All I could think about was you. The more time we spent together, the more I realized just how special you are. You dedicated yourself to understanding the case—inside and out, to making sure no one else was harmed by the Ellicott Creek Ripper. And the thing is, you succeeded. Your father stopped killing for twenty years. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Twenty years—because he saw firsthand how much it affected you. He was able to fight his compulsion. That’s how much he loved you. ”
Except if she’s right about him volunteering to drive her back to the motel, he was on the brink of relapsing. My father knew how much Greer meant to me, yet he considered murdering her anyway. Claire’s death almost destroyed me; he must’ve known it would only be worse the second time around.
He hadn’t cared.
Ever since the arrest, all I’ve allowed myself to feel about my father is a dull defensiveness. But now, emotions are thrashing around in my chest: shock and rage and, beneath all that, an ache that reminds me of when my mom died.
“It’s my fault.”
“No—”
“It is. If I hadn’t brought Claire home with me, she’d still be alive.”
“Fuck that.” Her response is so unexpected, I can’t help letting out a laugh.
“No, seriously, fuck that. You didn’t do anything except fall in love with a girl.
You fell in love, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
You’re a good person, and you deserve to fall in love.
You deserve to have someone love you back. ”
She reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. When she starts to lean forward, I know what’s coming. She’s going to kiss me. And I can’t help the way my hand reaches out reflexively to keep her at a distance.
“I…”
I can’t say the words. The truth is, I haven’t been with anyone since Claire.
I’ve tried a few times—with one-night stands, men who bought me cheap mixed drinks as part of an unspoken negotiation.
But every time we crawled into bed together, my groin would clench up like a fist. At first, the men would laugh it off: “You’re so tight.
Is this your first time?” But as the minutes passed and they weren’t able to push themselves inside me, it became clear that this wasn’t something sweet and shy.
There was something wrong with me.
She takes my hand in hers and squeezes. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
I want to, but how can I when the last girl who slept with me ended up dead?
I close my eyes, focus on my lungs working in my chest. He’s not here, I remind myself.
You don’t need his permission; you can have relationships that don’t include him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
He’s not here, but you are. You’re here, you’re alive, and you deserve to be loved.
I nod, and she leans closer, her breath settling, warm, in the crook of my neck. “Is this all right?”
“Yes.”
I let my head fall to the side, all the nerve endings coalescing wherever her mouth touches.
She travels down the side of my throat to my shoulder, and my hand reaches up, fingers twisting in her curls.
She grabs the hem of my T-shirt and tugs it over my head before pulling off her own.
She’s almost completely flat-chested in the way that makes some women so deliciously cool, a tattooed trail of flowers filling the shallow indentation down the center of her chest. She yanks down her underwear, revealing a thick thatch of hair that’s as vintage as her car.
Her fingers hesitate at the elastic waistband of my sweats, but then I nod, and she drags them down my thighs.
She eases me up onto the edge of the desk.
“Stop me if it’s too much,” she says before sinking to her knees.
She kisses her way down my stomach, not seeming to mind the roll of flab there, works her way right between my legs. She guides my hands to her curls, and I pull her even tighter against me. She doesn’t try to push inside me; instead, she focuses on what’s right there on the surface.
It’s good—so, so, so good.
I watch her wild shag of black curls working between my legs and imagine this moment unspooling, each blissfully painful moment stretching out forever and ever. And for the first time, I wonder if this could be something more than a single night.
If this could finally be a thing I get to keep.