The Last Housewife (48)

I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I think Clem had woken up, and the look in her eyes was her trying to wake me up, too. But in the moment, I thought she was trying to blame me—like her inability to follow the rules was my fault. All of my guilt and fear turned into anger because it was easier. I’m grateful Don gave us only one cut. I’m not sure what I would have done on my own.

JAMIE: You don’t mean that.

SHAY: Look at me, Jamie.

JAMIE: I can’t imagine you hurting anyone.

SHAY: Look at me. I didn’t just do it. I wanted to. How do you come back from that?

JAMIE: I don’t think I can hear any more. I’m sorry, I know it’s not what a journalist’s supposed to say. But I’m more than that with you.

SHAY: I’m telling you so you understand. The truth is burning in me, like a fever. I have to tell.

(Silence.)

Just listen. I didn’t know this the night we cut Clem, but my punishment wasn’t over. Or maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a punishment. Maybe it was Don’s plan all along, what he’d been building up to. But a week later, at midnight, he knocked on our bedroom door and said, “All of you. Now.”

Clem was still healing, and my back was still raw, but we knew we had to go. We followed him into his room, where Rachel was waiting. He lined them against the wall, but stood me in the center. I’d never had everyone watch before. I didn’t like it—especially Rachel, who’d been eyeing my welted back all week. But I knew I had to, so I started to slip off my nightgown, letting my mind untether. By that point, life was about making it from one moment to the next.

But Don seized my wrist and said, “Shay. Meet Mr. X.”

A man walked into the room wearing a dark suit and driving gloves. I will never forget those gloves, or his mane of silver hair. He had the face of a wolf. Even whiskers. When I looked at him, all I could see was his hunger. Whatever he was going to do to me, he’d been waiting a long time to do it.

I hadn’t imagined it could get worse, and now worse was standing right in front of me.

Mr. X looked at Don and said, “You’re right. She’s beautiful.”

Don said, “I told you. Texas beauty queen.”

The man’s eyes trailed down my body. He said to Don, “You told me I could do anything.”

Don said, “Everything you’ve been holding back since the divorce. Think of how that bitch emasculated you. Let it out.”

The man with the wolf’s mane grabbed me by the throat so fast it took a moment for the feeling to break through the shock. And when it did, I couldn’t even scream.

Mr. X was breathing hard. He wiped a hand over his mouth and said, “You were right. I needed this. You’re a sage, my friend.”

Don said, “Shay, take off your clothes.”

I didn’t move.

He said it again: “Take off your clothes, Shay.” And I had a moment—just a second—where I thought of saying no.

JAMIE: Stop. I can’t listen anymore. I know it’s unprofessional, I know you want to tell me, but I can’t do it. I just can’t—

(Footsteps. Rustling.)

End of transcript.





Chapter Fifteen


No one had ever stopped when I’d begged them to, but I guess the rules were different for me. I followed as Jamie retreated, quick on his heels.

“I’m telling you this for a reason, Jamie. The party tonight at Fox Lane… It reminded me of Don. Yeah, I know, there were people in masks and chanting, and none of that was the same. But the man who held me by the neck said, Wait until the Philosopher gets you.”

Jamie stood in the corner of the room, shoulders hunched, hands in his hair. When he ended the recording, he’d thrown his phone on the couch like it disgusted him. It sat there now, dark-screened against the petal-pink cushion, looking up at me like it was watching.

“What about it?” Jamie asked.

“Mr. X and the men after him, they talked about seeking Don’s counsel. Mr. X called him a sage. What if Don is the Philosopher?” I could feel Don’s specter hovering over me, growing more corporeal with every passing day.

“Christ, Shay.” Jamie was on his last reserve. I’d pushed him too hard, offered too strong a dose of the past. “If that’s true—if there’s even a chance—you can’t go back.”

“The thing is, I have to.” What I’d witnessed at Fox Lane had electrocuted me with panic, but once the adrenaline washed out and I was safe again, the realization had settled over me: This was it. The reason I’d come. “I have to figure out how Laurel was involved. I have to know what they’re doing.”

Jamie’s face was incredulous. “You just told me you were tortured at the hands of a man you think is part of this group—and even if he’s not, you say being there feels like being back in his house. And you want to go back in? Fuck no.” Jamie sprang forward. “Shay, what do you think is going to happen?”

The truth hit me when he stopped and folded his arms over his chest.

“You don’t trust me,” I said.

His expression became familiar: Jamie Knight, tight-lipped, trying not to show he disapproved, his eyes giving him away. No matter how he’d grown, he was still the same judgmental boy underneath.