Whisper to Me(109)

“Uh, yeah.”

“My dad might come back,” I said.

“He’s on a late night, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you said he hasn’t come back early on a late night for, what, a year?”

“Yes.”

“So I think you’re safe.”

“Okay,” I said. “We can talk about what to do. About finding Paris.”

“Sure,” you said.

But we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

I followed you up the steps and into the apartment. The place was still a dump—still the empty pizza cartons, the takeout boxes, the bottles of Coke. Still clothes hanging from every available surface, discarded menus, dust.

“You should fire your housekeeper,” I said.

“You’re our housekeeper, in theory anyway.”

“Yeah. And I’ve been terrible. You should fire me.”

You laughed, and then space compressed between us, some kind of freak twist of physics, and we were standing very close together. The kitchen fell away from around us, the dirt and detritus; there was only the evening light from the windows, slanting through the shutters, and the buzzing circuit formed when our hands touched.

White noise roared in my head, blocking out every other sound. You tuned the radio of my mind to a dead channel, switched off my thoughts.

It was amazing.

I shut my eyes, and we closed together neatly, like we were hinged, and you kissed me.

It felt like it lasted forever, that kiss. Like not only the kitchen fell away but the whole universe, and we were floating in a deep black abyss, where only the contact between us meant anything at all.

I don’t want to do that kind of line, like you read in books. The ones where it says, “He took off my top,” or that kind of thing. Because the undercurrent, the suggestion, becomes that you pushed me in some way, “only wanted one thing,” you get the idea. And anyway it wouldn’t be true. And it implies some kind of linearity when all I can say with confidence is that there was a moment when both our tops were on and then they were both off, and I was in my bra, which had strawberries on it, embarrassingly.

Our bodies touched. Hands moved. Fingers were outlined with electricity, dancing with it, St. Elmo’s fire; I felt like we were phosphorescent.

I half opened my eyes, and saw your hair, haloed with light. A blade of sunshine reached us from between the shutters, so sharp it looked like it would cut straight through us.

I closed my eyes again.

My head filled with static.

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“CASS?”

Huh?

“CASS.”

I opened my eyes, blinking, turning, already knowing. Already shrinking back.

And there was Dad, standing in the doorway. A dark figure against the reddish evening sunlight.

“I ran into Shane on the boardwalk,” he said. His voice was horribly, horribly calm. “He told me you were home. But you weren’t in the house.”

Silence.

“You put your shirt on and come with me right now, Cass,” he said.

His voice was cold. Cold and merciless as the sea.





I hauled on my T-shirt and as I passed Dad, he grabbed my upper arm, and pretty much pulled me down the steps.

“Dad, you’re hurting me,” I said.

He ignored me.

He dragged me all the way to the house and then pushed me away from him when we got to the den; hard. My leg slammed into the coffee table—I don’t think he meant for that to happen, but it sent a shock of pain up my hip. I stood very still, trembling.

“Again, Cass?” he said. His voice still had that quiet, dangerous tone. “I thought I made myself very clear.”

“Sorry, Dad,” I said.

“Sorry? Sorry? You know who called me today, Cass? You know why I left the restaurant early?”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“A cop, Cass. A ******* cop. Said you went to the police station? Something about harassing an officer of the law. Seemed to think you might get yourself into trouble.”

“I—”

“You’re not a ******* detective, Cass! I don’t know what goddamn books you’ve been reading, but you can’t solve this **** on your own and then get a ******* medal from the mayor, okay? What the ****, Cass?”

Silence.

“She was my friend,” I said eventually.

“She? Who the— Wait. You mean the ******* whore?”

“Paris.”

“Paris. Jesus H. ******* Christ. I knew that girl was trouble when I saw her at the hospital.”

“She’s probably dead,” I said.

“YES, AND YOU’RE NOT! Not yet anyway.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You sure about that? You’re sick, Cass. You’re sick, and you shouldn’t be running around playing Sherlock.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I can’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth, can I?” he said. “My own daughter.”