There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(75)

But I choose which part.

“Hello Mom,” I say.

I can see her struggle.

She prefers to be the one showing up unannounced on people’s doorsteps. She hates that I’m trespassing in her space, catching her unaware.

On the other hand, she’s been trying to find me for years. She can’t possibly slam the door in my face when she’s finally getting what she wants.

“What are you doing here?” she croaks.

I must have woken her, even though it’s ten o’clock in the morning. The sour scent of unwashed clothing, spilled wine, and stale cigarettes wafts out of the house. An old, old smell for me. One that recalls my earliest days.

“I brought you a gift,” I say, holding up a bottle of merlot, her favorite.

Her eyes flick to the label and back to my face, narrowing. I have never bought her alcohol in all my life.

“A peace offering,” I say. “I have something to discuss with you.”

I already know she won’t be able to resist. The wine is only half as tempting as what she really wants: the chance to dig information out of me.

“Fine,” she grunts, holding the door wider and retreating back into the house so I can follow.

That’s as good as an invitation.

I cross the threshold, closing the door behind me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. I stand still until they do, so I don’t trip over the piles of pizza boxes, empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, discarded clothing, scattered shoes, stacks of old magazines, junk mail, and moldering paper plates still marked with the remains of meals long past.

“Sit anywhere,” my mother says, flopping down on a pile of blankets on the ratty sofa—clearly the same place she was sleeping moments before.

I have to move a pile of old newspapers off the closest chair before I can likewise sit down. I recognize the paper on top: it’s the same one Arthur showed me during my last shift at Sweet Maple. The one that contains a picture of me in the arts section.

A tiny smirk plays over my mother’s lips as I set the papers aside.

She sparks up a cigarette, holding it in her usual way, pinched between thumb and index finger like it’s a joint.

I know her habits so well. Their familiarity repulses me, like an old journal entry that makes you cringe.

“Do you have a bottle opener?” I ask.

Of course she has a bottle opener. I might as well ask if she has toilet paper. It’s probably even more of a necessity in her eyes.

“In the kitchen,” she says, making no move to stand and retrieve it.

This is a power play—making me fetch the corkscrew and the glasses, waiting on her like I used to.

I anticipated this, and it suits me just fine.

I carry the wine into the kitchen, which is even filthier than the living room. The stovetop is piled with so much clutter that I doubt she’s ever laid eyes on the burners, let alone used them to cook. When I snap on the overhead light, several roaches dive down under the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

The cabinets are empty. I find the glasses in the dishwasher, amongst a pile of plates speckled with green mold. Swallowing back bile, and avoiding the roaches as best I can, I wash the cups in the sink. I have to swish a little water in the Dawn bottle to get the last dregs of soap out of it.

My mother doesn’t call out to see what’s taking so long. I hear the faint crackle as she sucks on her cigarette, followed by an exhale and a wracking cough that rattles in her chest.

The glasses are wet, with no paper towel to dry them. I shake them off, then search for the bottle opener. Unsurprisingly, it’s out in the open on the kitchen counter, next to my mother’s keys, an open tube of lipstick, and a handful of loose change. Next to that, a dozen prescription bottles, some with her name on them, and some bought or stolen. Most of the bottles are already empty.

I bring the glasses out filled to the brim, and pass one to my mother.

She takes it, saying, “Where’s the bottle?”

I retrieve it from the kitchen, setting it on the coffee table between us, atop a stack of old Vogues. I’m not the first person to do this—Anne Hathaway’s face is already distorted by several wet rings.

Girl With One Eye – Florence + The Machine

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple





My mother takes three swallows of the wine, gulping it like cool water after a long race. Sighing in satisfaction, she leans back against the threadbare cushions of the sofa. Now she’s smiling, smoke drifting up from her cigarette, hanging over her head like her own personal storm cloud.

“Come back to brag?” she says.

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?” she snaps. “What do you want?”

She can’t imagine anyone visiting her on purpose, for the pleasure of her company.

In this case, she’s right.

“I saw you gave another interview about me,” I say.

She lets out a snort of air, the closest thing to a laugh.

“Don’t like me spilling all your secrets?” she sneers.

My mother still has the mannerisms of a beautiful woman—she arches her eyebrow in the same haughty way, holding her cigarette with theatrical flair. Men used to fall at her feet. She had this dark confidence that sucked them in until they realized that everything about her is an act. She’s allergic to the truth, she won’t tell it even when it would benefit her to do so.