Lost in La La Land(19)

I saw things, promises I had made to myself and to Lola and to Jonathan. Promises I would never keep.

Stanley and Marguerite’s kids were the closest thing Lola would ever have.

I got up and let her outside to run about. She adored the huge yard and different smells and the cracks in the fence where she could bark at the neighbors for even daring to step a foot into their yard. Technically, they didn't have a yard. Their yard was an extension of Stan’s, an extension of Lola’s.

She was a bossy little thing.

It was one of my favorite things about her, the savage beast in tiny packaging. She feared nothing and everything and overcompensated for it all.

I stayed a week, taking up space and time and needing more than I helped. I hated being in a guestroom and being a guest. Maybe because I hated guests. I assumed everyone did as well.

On the eighth day, I packed my bags and called a cab, needing my own space and time.

“Leave the dog,” Marguerite offered, not asking me to stay longer. “Don't go back into the city with the dog. She likes it here and we don't mind having her, to play with the kids. She’s so good.”

My dog was easier than I was. She didn’t sit and stew on the predicaments in her life. She didn't stare at paintings and get lost. She didn't scratch itches that weren’t real or long to be somewhere else.

“You sure you don't mind?” I did the obligatory thing. Leaving Lola would be easier, since I was going back to my apartment and wasn't sure what I would find there. I imagined the mayor would be sitting outside in his limo with his guards, his henchmen. They would grab me and place a black bag over my head. I would be carted away like in the old movies.

“No. God. The kids love having her here. And honestly, she spends too much time alone in the apartment. You’re always having to hire someone to take care of her or put her in dog daycare. This is better.” She hugged me as though she was ending the conversation, deciding for us both.

“Thanks. I appreciate everything. I’ll come back for her once I have the apartment settled. I need to get it on the market and make some serious decisions.” I squeezed her back, almost scared to be leaving. Her house had become a bit of a haven, even if I hated being a guest.

“We love you, Em. You know that.”

“I know.” I waved as the car arrived and carried my small bag out of the house. I hadn’t packed much to leave with, wanting my apartment and office to look the same, as if I hadn’t run off. I had even planted fake computers that were never used by me for anything. They were laptops of Jonathan’s. I’d wiped them to sell but hadn’t gotten around to it. They ended up being the perfect decoys.

Anything of value, anything that carried my work, was hidden with Miss Havisham’s ghost at the old mansion.

The ride into the city was dreary, as always. Late fall was cold and wet and gray. It was my favorite season. Watching things die off had become a bit of a delight, like I wasn't so alone in that respect.

I got the cab to drop me off three blocks from my apartment, certain I would need to survey the area before committing to going up.

As I made my way to the apartment, I switched my phone back on, noting Dr. Brielle never messaged me back. In fact, I had no missed messages, not even from clients.

The shop had been closed long enough that people weren’t calling anymore.

That saddened me.

Their joy had been my food, and I was malnourished and suffering from this famine.

The cars driving up and down the boulevard appeared to be regular traffic. Nothing stood out as parked with people inside watching the building. No vans or anyone lurking around corners. It appeared to be a normal Wednesday.

I went in the side door, one I never usually entered through, and took the stairs to my floor. I was winded by the time I made my way onto my floor.

The hallway looked and smelled the same as always, a mixture of the people living here.

My heart raced, my palms sweat, and my stomach ached, but I walked as if I’d done nothing wrong, head high and shoulders back. I took a deep breath as I slid the microchip key, listening as the lock opened itself as if I’d said the password.

When I opened the door and stepped in, I flinched, waiting for it.

But nothing jumped out.

The house had been gone through, there was no denying that. Everything had been opened and searched, but it wasn't in ruin. There was no real mess or chaos to it. I would close the cupboards and drawers and pretend none of this had happened, apart from the violated feeling, of course.

I closed the door and leaned against it, hand on the handle, ready to open it back up and flee. Holding my breath, I listened.

But no one moved.

Just as I sighed, relaxed and safe, a woman with messy dark hair and a dead look in her eyes strolled from the back hall. “About time you got back.” Her voice and face were so altered I might not have recognized her. But there was no mistaking the huge ring on her finger.

“Lana?” I gasped. She had bandages on her wrists and needle marks on her thin, pale arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” Her words were soft, not angry—heartbroken or exhausted maybe.

“If your husband knew—”

“I left him. I filed for separation and hired a lawyer.” She nodded, wiping away a tear from one of her eyes. “He’s going to ruin my parents’ bakery but they don't care anymore. They just want me away from him.” She held up her wrists. “He faked my suicide.” She started to laugh like bits of madness were slipping out. “Like I would be so averse to dying.”