How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(68)

I picture Ruben, looking at me with pleading, desperate eyes as I tell him I can’t call an ambulance. I imagine a cord coming from my stomach, linking me to him.

‘Now imagine a huge pair of scissors or a knife cutting through that cord.’ She takes another deep breath. ‘You’re free.’

Oh, Tor. If only it were as simple as that.

‘How do you feel?’ she asks, her face bright with hope. ‘It’s a cord-cutting ritual to release you from things that have been holding you back.’

I smile back. ‘Well, I’ll keep trying. Thanks.’

‘Charlie was so worried about you,’ she says. ‘That is a man in love.’

Tor smooths down her hair and sighs. ‘I’m sorry for blabbing to him about the baby. I was just so angry with him. I wanted him to know how fragile you are and how much he’d hurt you. But it wasn’t my place to say anything.’ I can feel her looking at me while I stare ahead.

‘It wasn’t a baby,’ I say, facing her.

A tiny crease appears between her brows.

‘Look, I’m not getting into a debate with you about where life starts, but you were pregnant. And then you weren’t. You can’t just ignore that and carry on like it’s had no emotional impact on you.’ Tor’s been in very costly therapy since the rape. Which is helping her. But not me. Even so, I can’t tell her the truth.

‘It was barely a missed period,’ I sigh. ‘And it certainly had nothing to do with the suicide attempt I didn’t make.’

She side-eyes me. ‘Do you think you might be in denial, Kits?’

‘No. I do not think I’m in denial, Victoria. I don’t want a baby. And nature took care of that decision for me. And I didn’t try to kill myself. I was in a crappy mood, I couldn’t sleep and I over-self-medicated. It happens. Why is everyone trying to make me think there’s something wrong with me?’

Tor’s twisting her fingers into knots. ‘Because you could have died. Because you lost a baby. Because you’ve been so painfully unhappy for so long. You’ve not been the same since Ad—’

‘Don’t say his name,’ I snap.

‘I don’t care what tone of voice you use with me, Kitty Collins, you need to let go of the Adam-guilt. It wasn’t your fault.’ She reaches for my fingers now and knots them in with her own. ‘I know you feel bad. I know.’ She pulls me into her and coaxes my head onto her shoulder, rests hers on mine.

‘I feel terrible,’ I say. ‘I wanted him hurt. I wasn’t even sorry when he was.’

‘Babes, we all think about awful things happening to people who hurt us. But you’re not bloody Carrie. Your thoughts had nothing to do with what happened.’

No. Not my thoughts.

‘Anyway, I promise you the therapist will help. The one I’m seeing has been brilliant with me. Really gentle.’

I’m sure a therapist is exactly what Tor needs to help her start to heal from what happened to her in Greece. Not quite sure how they’d deal with a non-suicide attempt, a miscarriage that never happened and the several dead men in my recent past. But, it’s a good opportunity to change the topic.

‘And how are you doing? Really?’

She pulls her hands away from mine and tucks them under her bottom.

‘I don’t know,’ she almost whispers. ‘Some days I’m okay and it’s like nothing happened. But then other days, even a car horn makes me jump. Some days I don’t leave my bed. Paul says it’s PTSD.’

‘Paul?’

‘Dr Paul.’ I swear there’s a flush on her cheeks. ‘Anyway, he says there’s lots we can do to help rewire my brain.’

I bet he does.

‘Is he good? Your Dr Paul?’

That’s when I see it. It’s nothing more than a tiny softening of her expression but she’s bloody well falling in love with her therapist and – not having any psychology degrees myself – even I’m willing to bet this is Not A Good Thing.

‘What?’ Tor asks me, all Victorian churchgoer innocence.

‘You’re blushing.’

‘It’s night and I’m Black.’

‘I can feel you blushing.’

‘Oh, Kits,’ she says. ‘Try eating something. Your cheekbones are starting to look like Maleficent’s. And, for once I’m not saying that as a compliment.’

I shake my head. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

‘Says the actual queen of the subject change.’

‘Okay. Well, when you’re ready, I’ll be here. Just say the word,’ I tell her. ‘You’re vulnerable. And it would be totally unethical.’

She kisses the top of my head before she leaves. ‘I love you, Kits.’





58


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

For the next few weeks, Charlie and I are mostly alone in our little bubble. I’ve never lived with anyone before and it has never been something that appeals to me, for obvious reasons. But with him, it just works. He makes sure I eat properly, makes sure I sleep properly and makes sure I keep my screen time down. Which has helped so much to calm my mind. The meds given to me by the hospital are kicking in and I feel myself returning to normal, whatever that is. Non-murdery, I guess.