Until the Day I Die(65)

And, Jesus. I just sat there, in our kitchen, at that table, and let everyone gang up on Mom. I agreed with them that she needed to be sent away. I let this happen.

Dele softens. “I’m not trying to be your grandma here—really I’m not—but I think there’s a good chance that your life is about to go balls up, big-time.”

I don’t bother mentioning that Gigi, my proper southern grandmother, would never say balls up or, for that matter, condense and contextualize all the events that I’d just told her about in such an impressive way. Even as messed up as I am right now, I can see that Dele is gonna make one hell of a reporter. Which gives me an idea.

“If you’ll drive me to Ben’s house,” I say, “I’ll give you the story. You can have the exclusive rights, the scoop, or whatever they call it, to write about the whole thing.”

“Nobody says scoop anymore, FYI,” Dele says. “But that’s really nice of you.” She puts a hand on my knee. “I’m happy to drive you to Birmingham. But I just want to let you know, I’m not doing this for a story. I’m doing this because you’re my friend.”





35

ERIN

I force my swollen eyes open, no clue as to how much time has passed. Wherever it is they’ve put me, it’s bathed in low amber light. Jess is curled up next to me, her head resting against the wall. I can see blood dripping from a gash in her lip. We’re not tied up, but that’s probably because there’s a huge wooden door bolted with iron fittings keeping us locked in this place. Our feet are bare. I guess Lach’s taken our boots.

“I heard them talking before you came,” she says, and I start. I hadn’t realized she was awake. “Antonia told him not to kill us here, so we’ve got some time.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday, I think. You’ve been out for a while.”

As my eyes adjust to the light, I see we’re in a wine cellar. It’s wired for electricity and hung with gothic sconces in the shape of iron torches. Arched brick cubbies, cobwebbed and dark, line the walls. Probably home to about a million spiders, I think, and shudder. There are no wine bottles that I can see, but in the center of the room, on the stone floor, sits a wobbly wood table and two chairs. Someone’s left peanut butter sandwiches and water. I help Jess to her feet, and we finish them off in seconds.

We’re not so far down in the depths of the earth that we can’t still hear the god-awful music playing on the main levels. The trippy, trance-like beat is driving me out of my ever-loving mind. I tell Jess about the run-in with the actress and the message—the half message, to be more exact—that I got out to Shorie.

My head throbs with every beat of the music. My knee’s tender, too, but I keep bending it and stretching it. I think if I have to run, I’ll be able to, even barefoot. These people, they’re monsters. Although they’re not the only ones. There’s someone else—someone from my real life, back at home—who set this up.

Ben, Sabine, Layton, Gigi, or Arch. Or maybe all of them, working together, a well-oiled criminal conspiracy machine. I wonder what Antonia named them in her stupid code name, secret spy landscaping file. Poison ivy? Deadly nightshade?

We’ll go with motherfuckers for now.

“It’s up to your daughter, I guess,” Jessalyn says.

“Except that I didn’t give her any useful information. Or any information at all,” I growl.

She pats my knee, and we both go quiet. It feels comforting to be with her here, down in the shit hole. She makes me feel stronger. More hopeful. I sigh and let my body relax against hers.

“Have you thought about how it’ll be if we get out of this?” she says after a while. “I mean, somehow we dodge this asshole who’s chasing us, hop a plane—me to New Orleans, you to . . .”

“Birmingham.”

“What do we do then? Stroll up on our family or our friends who signed us up for Rehab, the Deluxe Version, and say what, exactly? ‘I know you put a hit out on me, like you think you’re some goddamn Tony Soprano. But—surprise, I slipped out the side door and now I’m home, so you wanna go get some mozzarella sticks and tell me why you want me dead so bad?’”

I regard her. “You said your father sent you here.”

“He did.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. “Because I fucked up, big-time.”

Just then, we hear the squeal of metal on metal, and the heavy door creaks open. Antonia strides in, glamorous and out of place in her black dress and heels. The door slams shut behind her and locks with a loud chunk. She looks down at us with an expression of thoughtfulness, and I realize I’ve dropped my eyes to the floor, the posture of the submissive animal. I lift them again and glare at her.

She addresses me. “I’m impressed with you, Erin. But then, I had a feeling from the start about you.”

“What’s the holdup, Antonia?” I say. “Why haven’t you killed us yet?”

She sighs. “I think you know why. Witnesses who are high or drunk are, unfortunately, still witnesses.”

“Okay,” I say. “So, another subject. Who signed me up for this magical experience? This L’élu trois?”

She blinks, surprised that I’ve put it all together, and I have to admit, satisfaction shoots through me.