Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(44)

How his wife deals with a man who always looks so perturbed is beyond me. She must have a spine of steel to not spend all of her time thinking he’s mad at her.

I’ve only spoken to her a few times; she’s warm where Kal isn’t, a balm for his sharp edges. But there’s a ferocity that blazes in her eyes. One that doesn’t allow for much direct contact.

A match made in hell.

My first year here, I ended every evening with a phone call checking in with Kal, demanding to see pictures of his newborn daughter.

The guise was that we were ensuring I was safe, but really, I was just lonely, and I think he knew. Eventually, the calls became attempts at therapy sessions, and I’d ceased making them entirely, except for when he insisted.

In a way, it felt like I was cheating on Boyd, and I think that’s why I withdrew. Then again, my brother’s pointed absence all this time makes me feel a little less guilty.

If he can’t show up when I need him most, why shouldn’t I replace him?

“We’re talking twenty, thirty pairs of panties here,” I say after the silence goes on for so long, he actually looks up. “They aren’t pens; they don’t get misplaced.”

“Perhaps your dryer ate them? I’ve heard of that happening.”

Shifting so I’m sitting on my ass instead of my knees, I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you even do your own laundry?”

“Only the loads with blood stains.”

A shiver coasts over my skin, like the featherlight sweep of fingertips. It’s a barrier, one he purposely puts up any time things get too chummy, like he’s as uncomfortable with our dynamic as I am.

Shaking my head, I smooth my palms over the carpet; my hand freezes mid-sweep, touching the edge of a distinct groove.

In the shape of a footprint.

I’m not sure why, but for some reason, I don’t immediately point it out to Kal. My insides twist painfully, the way you wring out a wet rag, but I ignore the sensation. Instead, I force my hand the rest of the way, erasing the evidence.

Lifting my head, I try to pretend I didn’t see it in the first place, sure that my mind is playing tricks on me. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that.” He sighs. “However, I do think you should consider the correlation.”

“Between…?”

“Solitude and preposterous scenarios. Especially for a stressed, traumatized individual.”

His doctor voice is in full effect, and I shrink into myself, feeling small.

“I’m not saying you’re crazy, or that you’re making things up. But the mind is a wonderfully delirious place when we allow it to be. It can create false narratives and block out truths entirely. Sometimes, it’s to shield us from bad memories; others, it’s fear manifesting, conjuring things that simply don’t exist, as if trying to prepare us for certain possibilities.”

My fingers clutch at the carpet threads, as if the imprint might return.

“Sounds like a fancy way of calling me a liar.”

Tugging at the lapels of his black trench coat, Kal shrugs. “I believe you believe what you’re telling me. Unfortunately, the evidence doesn’t support the claim, and… well, there’s not really anything I can do about it, Riley. I can arrange to have more cameras installed, but maybe you should also look into—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—therapy.” He slips his phone into his pocket, dark eyes glinting in the bedroom light. “You’ve experienced a lot of traumas in your short life, and now you’re living on your own, pretending to be a person who hasn’t felt death slip between her fingers. That’s quite the charade, don’t you think?”

I look at the floor, emotion circling my throat. “I’ve tried therapy before. It was all Boyd made me do after the attack.”

Kal hums. “Try again. Even meditating or journaling would be better than ruminating. In the meantime, I’ll have someone out with more cameras this week. Think you can manage until then?”

Nodding, I sit there on the floor as he sees himself out of the cabin. It’s not until I hear the front door click shut, the sound echoing off the ceiling, that I get to my feet and go down to lock everything behind him.

When he’s gone, I press my back into the door and glance around the main level of the cabin.

It’s always so fucking empty when they leave.

Twisting the knob on the fireplace, I watch the flames roar to life, then move to the kitchen to make myself a cup of hot cocoa. While I wait for the water to boil, I stare at my phone, considering calling my brother.

If anyone understands why I don’t want therapy, it’s him. Not that it ever kept him from making me go. At one point, we even tried group sessions, but then work and school kept our schedules apart, and I got to a place where I was functioning through the day, so I think he assumed I was okay.

That I wasn’t hollow anymore, just because I’d resumed eating and sleeping and watching television.

Or maybe that’s just what he wanted to believe.

But the truth is, it’s not possible to heal from things you can’t see.

Even invisible wounds hurt, and mine have scarred so deeply by now that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move on. Not sure if I’ll ever stop looking over my shoulder and expecting rancid yellow eyes, or the taste of copper.