Lies That Bind Us(25)

Kristen leaned into him and smiled vaguely. She looked unsteady, and I wondered how much she had drunk. The look she gave him was more than flirty. It was secretive.

“Sounds good,” she said and drifted away, her private smile still in place.

Simon watched her, his eyes dropping unconsciously to her ass as she walked away, then turned back to the window and stared fixedly into the rain-swept night.

“Did someone go out?” he asked, still looking out the window.

“Huh?” said Melissa, who had been drowsing absently on the couch, her long legs stretched out in front of her.

“The gate’s open,” said Simon. “I closed it when we came in. Has someone been out? Come on, people, let’s try to be a little careful.”

“You’re afraid we’ll fall prey to Zorba the Ripper?” asked Melissa.

Gretchen laughed, a high, unsteady laugh, too loud and long, until Melissa gave her an arch look and said, “No more voddy for you, little Gretchen.”

“I’m fine!” she sang back. “Totally down, right Marcus?”

“I’m sorry?” said Marcus.

“I’m down. You know. Down.”

“I don’t know what you . . .”

“You know,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “It’s a street thing, dog. ‘I’m down with OPP, yeah, you know me . . . ,’” she sang, flashing ludicrous gang signs.

“Oh boy,” said Marcus. “You need to go to bed.”

“Just tryin’ to keep it real, homes.”

“OK,” said Marcus.

I moved quickly, getting up and sliding in between them and taking hold of her hands. I couldn’t see Marcus’s face, but I didn’t need to. I could hear the tightening in his voice.

“Come on, Gretchen,” I said. “Bedtime.”

“Okeydoke,” she said, beaming sweetly, her eyes vague, head lolling. I hauled her to her feet, but she shook me off and made a show of taking a few steps unassisted. I threw Marcus a glance. He was watching Gretchen leave, scowling. When he caught me looking, he rolled his eyes.

“That’s my girl,” said Melissa absently, though I wasn’t sure which of us she was commending. Her attention was on Simon, who was still scowling into the darkness outside.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said.

“Not worried about us,” said Simon, terse and frowning, oblivious to the almost-drama with Gretchen. “Worried about the house. We paid a significant deposit to cover any damages. I’d rather not lose it because we invited the local hooligans onto the property.”

“I don’t think there are any hooligans round here,” said Melissa. “Goats, maybe.”

Again, Gretchen’s manic laugh.

“Jeez,” said Melissa to her, “Marcus is right. You need to go to bed.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Marcus. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

I couldn’t see Marcus’s face properly, but I thought he flinched or blinked or . . . something.

God, I thought. What if he thinks I’m fishing for an invitation, a drunken quickie for old times’ sake?

I nearly made a show of changing my mind and pouring myself one last drink, but I already felt wobbly and a little nauseous and wanted nothing more than to get into bed. It was only midnight, but I had been traveling all day and suddenly realized that the time difference made it seven in the morning. No wonder I felt like an extra on The Walking Dead. I turned to say my good nights, but Brad and Kristen were already asleep—or pretending to be—on the loveseat, and Simon was still staring out the window down to where the open gate was swaying back and forth in the wind. When I looked back to where Marcus had been, he was gone. I took my time, washing my glass out and wiping the sticky counter down so that I wouldn’t bump into him on the landing.

Unless he wanted me to and was deliberately hovering outside the bathroom . . .

I pushed the thought away decisively.

I was right to. I saw no sign of him upstairs and moved quietly to my room, unlocking the door and closing it behind me with something like relief. I couldn’t afford to confuse my life further by getting entangled with Marcus again, even if he wanted to, which seemed unlikely. And besides, I was here all week. Plenty of time for that kind of bad decision.

I stepped out of my clothes and left them where they fell, suddenly so tired I couldn’t think. The bed was soft, softer than I generally preferred, but tonight that didn’t matter. I was, for the first time in years, asleep in under a minute.



I woke with a start. It was still dark, and I had no idea what time it was or, for a moment, where I was. It took me a second to orient myself: the bed, the window, the door.

The door.

My blurry eyes latched onto it as my brain connected the dots, trying to recall what had woken me. A knock? Footsteps in the hallway as someone blundered to the bathroom? Or the door handle?

I had locked it when I came in. I was almost sure.

I lay where I was, huddled in the duvet like a child hiding, and then I got up, flinging the covers aside and stalking across the room with a muttered curse of decision. I tried the handle.

Locked.

I went back to bed and lay very still for a long time.

Eventually I fell asleep again and heard nothing more till I woke and found the room full of soft light. It was muted by the drapes, but it was clearly morning. Or afternoon. I had no idea. The room felt muggy, the air stale. I peered through the drapes, squinting at the brightness of the sun outside, to see if there was a window I could open. They all had little locks, the kind that required a screwdriver-like tool to unfasten before you could unlatch them. There was no sign of it.