An Honest Lie(85)

“I have to use the toilet,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Hey! I need to go now!”

He unpacked his bags, removing several items and setting them on the counter next to his other supplies, before acknowledging her. New day, same games. He was so predictable she wanted to scream it in his face, tell him she knew how to play now, too.

She licked her lips as she watched him stroll casually toward her, dusting his hands off. She was so thirsty she could scream. He knelt behind her on one knee; she could see him out of the corner of her eye as she twisted around. His fingers touched her wrists and she wanted to be sick. Her muscles recoiled away from him, but there was nowhere to go. The devil is on your skin, she thought. She was trapped by the handcuffs, forced to endure his skin on hers until she heard the clank of metal that indicated she was free. Rainy moved slowly, bringing her arms around until they rested in her lap, sore and stiff. She let her muscles adjust with her eyes closed. She didn’t want to see him.

Taured had Ginger’s gun pointed at her. So he’d found it. She could smell it, almost taste the metal in the back of her throat. She lifted herself unsteadily to her feet. If Taured had a reaction, she couldn’t see it, because he was still behind her; she could feel his presence pulsing the same way it had when she was a child. He could fill up a room just by standing in the doorway.

Braithe stirred from where she lay, moaning, and Rainy felt a jolt of hope. But before she could get a good look, Taured was steering her toward the bathroom. Rainy’s left hand was free; the handcuffs dangled from her right. She caught a glimpse of Taured in the mirror above the sink before he shoved her inside. She was suddenly alone, with only his feet visible from beneath the door. She slid the lock in place gently, and a little jerk of his head through the space between the stall door told her he’d noticed. His back remained mercifully turned as she pulled down her pants and lowered herself to the bowl. She kept her eyes on the part of him she could see through the crack in the door: the perfectly trimmed hairline—he had his hair cut every few weeks—and the black outline of ink beneath his white T-shirt, snaking up above the neckline.

The tinkling of her urine hitting the water below made her shut her eyes, shame temporarily crawling up her spine. The monster guarding her stall shifted slightly to say he’d heard, too. How many seconds did she have? Her fingers found the edge of the Band-Aid and began to tug, her eyes darting from the gap between the stalls to her work. She’d made the cut high on her inner thigh, not flinching as she sliced a line deep enough to draw some blood. She’d made two more on the other side, but she focused on the first one. The cut was angry, the pad of the Band-Aid yellowed with blood.

Rainy’s pee was tinkering off. Taured knocked on the door and she jumped. Her finger was underneath the cloth padding of the Band-Aid, coaxing. The plastic slid free, and she flushed the toilet, tossing the used Band-Aids inside. Rainy pulled up her pants: leggings, as Ginger had told her to wear. It was smart: you couldn’t hide weapons or anything else under the constrictive spandex. But he hadn’t realized that women’s leggings often have a tiny, hidden pocket in the waistband. She slipped the pills from Barry inside, and tugging her shirt over the waist, she rattled the lock to let Taured know she was done. He took his time stepping away from the door, so Rainy took her time washing her hands, pretending to be unmoved that he was behind her, watching her in the mirror.

Enjoy it while you can, freak.

He looked the same, just a little worn, but he wore the same clothes as he had fifteen years ago and parted his hair the same way. He was a monster of habit. That was good. That was really good, in fact; because Rainy was counting on being able to predict him. And she needed him to think he could predict her. There was a hint of a smirk around his eyes as he studied her. One could almost mistake it for fatherly pride, if they didn’t know better. He followed her from the bathroom without saying a word.

He walked behind her, the gun pointed at her back. She tried to get a look at Braithe’s head to see how bad it was, but he shoved her forward. She’d been slurring the last time she was conscious. Instead of making her sit in her usual place on the floor, he led her to the counter, where the wine and raw steak sat waiting next to the grill.

“A meal,” he said, looking at her carefully. “Like old times.”

She kept her eyes on the fat of the steak, at the pinkish white running through the meat. The tightening in her chest was painful, her breath threatening to come too fast—or not at all.

One look at it and she was hurtled into the past—into Summer.

She was painting her toenails in front of the squat window that sat high on the wall of their room, the glass pane wedged open by her mother, who’d used a stool to reach it. They weren’t technically allowed to paint their nails, but she’d come to her mother’s room to feel close to her and had found the little bottle on the nightstand. She painted her last toe—the baby—and leaned back to look. It was bold, and people would notice. She felt a burst of defiance. Let them look! Hadn’t that been what her mother intended when she bought it? She was so deeply sorry for the things she’d said the last time they’d spoken.

Suddenly, she heard voices and the sound of laughter. Someone was walking in the hall outside her mother’s room. She perched on her haunches, her ears strained and her heart racing. She was supposed to be in the kitchen tonight, helping with dinner, but she’d left minutes after arriving, slipping out before anyone noticed. The little bottle of blue polish sat near her feet, and she deftly swept it under the bed as the knock sounded. The smell of it still lingered in the air. The knock sounded again, knuckles rapping on the wood right in front of her face, and she jumped back, hesitating, and then swung open the door. She’d forgotten to put her socks back on—she should have, even though the polish was still wet—and now she stood barefoot in front of Taured, ten little sins exposed.