The Night Before(48)

I nod Yes. That might be how it happened.

“I heard the car door close and the engine rev. The headlights never came on, but I also heard the car peel away on the gravel. I didn’t wait after that. I crept out of the bushes to where I could see. I didn’t know if Mitch had gotten away and left this person in the road, waiting to get me next. Or if this person had stolen Mitch’s car. So I was quiet and cautious. Until I could see.

“And then I did. I did see—Mitch on the ground. His body still. That’s when I screamed and ran toward him. I stood over his body. Blood was coming from his head and his mouth. It pooled but it also sprayed. I screamed and screamed, spun around in circles, looking for this madman. It wasn’t rational, because the car was gone. But I just felt this wave of panic and fear, so I kept scanning the woods, waiting for someone to come and help. I saw the bat a few yards away, and what went through my mind was that it was a weapon I could use to protect myself. I wasn’t thinking about fingerprints or evidence. I was afraid for my life, even though it doesn’t make sense since I knew the man was gone. The fear had not left with him—it was right there, all around me. I felt like I was prey out in the open, looking everywhere, in front, behind, near, far, frantically. Each time I turned my head, new fear came about what might be jumping from the shadows in the place I turned from. I remember that part so well—the terror and the desperation to be safe.

“Finally they came, my sister and others from the party. They came seeping from the woods, their hands covering their mouths in horror as they saw Mitch bleeding on the ground. And saw me standing over him, holding the bat and screaming like a lunatic. Every last one of them, including my sister, came to the same conclusion—I knew right then and there, because they didn’t run to me, or to Mitch, to try to help us. To calm me down or stop the bleeding. They just stood and stared the way people do when they stumble upon a crime scene. I was surrounded by people—friends, and even family—and yet I was completely, painfully, alone.”

Jonathan stares now too. Scrunched brow. Open mouth. I know this look well. I seem to bring it out in people.

But I can’t stand seeing it. Not now—not on Jonathan Fielding.

I turn around so I don’t have to bear witness. I see my purse and pull it toward me. One hand reaches in, looking again for the phone and possibly a charger hidden, perhaps, among the debris I shoved in there from my other bag.

“Laura…” His voice is deep and soft. He stands behind me again, like he’d done before I finished my story. He wraps his strong arms around me. Just like before. He kisses the top of my head, not like Rosie does with Mason—a quick peck as he races off. His lips linger long enough for me to feel his breath.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he whispers. And then I feel his cheek pressing against mine.

I close my eyes and let my hand rest inside the purse. I am the one who begins to melt now.

His pulse quickens. He kisses my neck.

Melting. Melting.

I am a woman on fire.

“Tell me to stop and I will.…” His hands run down the sides of my waist. Slow but firm. One of them finds the front of a thigh. The other finds the back.

“Tell me.…” he says again. He almost pleads. I am pulling him to that treacherous place. The point of no return.

Walk away.… It’s just an illusion. I know that now, and yet I am still helpless.

I feel the rush. The power over this man.

I am an invincible woman.

I am a helpless child, tugging on a sleeve, watching as the head begins to look down. Eyes from above are about to turn, about to see me.

I am so close, I can feel it in my bones.

My hand is still inside the purse, but it no longer feels for a charger. It wants to touch him, this man. Jonathan Fielding. I pull my hand from the bag and feel the metal zipper scratch against my knuckles. But my fingertips, they brush against something cool and stiff. A piece of paper, and a horrible thought rushes through me. A note?

He grabs my hips and spins me around. His mouth finds mine. I suddenly know nothing of the paper in the purse or the scrape from the zipper, as my hand is now free, reaching beneath his shirt to touch his body.

Both hands find his shoulders, then his head, sweeping through his hair.

Walk away, I try to tell that woman. But she won’t listen. She never listens.

She deserves what’s coming.





TWENTY-SEVEN


Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 10 a.m. Branston, CT.

Gabe sat across from Rosie at the same diner where she’d met the woman from the bar. She’d sent Joe a quick text: Still in NY. Call if you hear anything. Then she’d turned off her phone.

She showed Gabe the notes and told him about New York. He was with her every step, not missing a beat.

“So the boyfriend was the shrink—the one she said she’d been seeing?” Gabe asked. He looked as tired as Rosie felt, cradling a ceramic coffee mug between two palms.

“It would be just like her to seduce her therapist,” Rosie said, then wished she could take it back. “God, that’s horrible, isn’t it? How can I say things about her when she’s in this much trouble?”

Gabe reached over and grabbed her hand. His skin was warm, comforting, and it suddenly occurred to her that she and Joe never held hands anymore.

“Rosie—nothing you do or say right now is going to be judged. Not by me, at least. It is like Laura to do something like that. She always went for the highest climb—the guys who seemed impossible to conquer, even if it was just because they were assholes.”