The Lion's Den(90)

(twenty-one days ago)

Los Angeles



I lay in the bath, submerged in hot water, staring into the flame of a serenity-scented candle while rain drummed steadily on the roof of my apartment. It was past midnight and the bubbles were all gone, yet my mind was still miles from the tranquility required for sleep.

I hadn’t breathed a word to a soul about the parking ticket I’d received in the mail that morning and was yet to come up with any explanation for it that didn’t point to Summer’s lying about going to her mom’s house and instead heading to Ventura, where Eric’s car had been found. But why? What was she doing in Ventura?

Did she kill Eric?

It was a leap—but not an implausible one. Though why would she do such a thing? Would she go so far as to take his life simply to prevent him from revealing their involvement to John? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Still, the Summer I’d known had died the night Three raped her. Her loss of integrity had of course already been an ongoing affair by that point, but he’d pounded the last bit of humanity out of her and now I could believe her capable…of anything, really.

So let’s say she did kill him, and that she’d done it at the park. What proof was there? It was my car that was linked to the scene of the crime. And I had no alibi. At 1:42 p.m. on July 22, I was home alone, talking to no one, doing nothing that would have been recorded.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Summer had known what she was doing, borrowing my car. And that she wanted me to know the danger I would be putting myself in if I raised any questions about Eric’s death.

Above the sound of the rain I heard a thumping. I sat up in the tub, listening. A branch on the roof? But it was more like a knocking. Maybe it was the neighbors downstairs. But there it was again over the low rumble of thunder, louder. Someone was knocking on my door.

Who on earth? I launched out of the tub and quickly dried myself, pulled on a bathrobe, and tiptoed into the living room, where the rapping continued. I crept to the door and put my eye to the hole.

A charge scorched through my veins. A man stood outside, backlit and wearing a black hoodie, his body contorted in what looked like pain. Or he could be hiding a gun. Regardless, I wasn’t opening the door.

“Belle,” he called, his voice hoarse and low.

So it was a man who knew me, or knew where I lived, anyway.

“I know you’re there,” he whispered.

“Go away,” I said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Please open the door. Please.”

His voice was muffled but familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.

“Who is it?”

“Eric,” he said.

My heart stopped. Was this guy messing with me? Did someone know my car was in that park in Ventura?

I put my eye to the hole. “Push back your hoodie.”

“My face is fucked.” He pushed back the hoodie, revealing shorn blond hair, but he was still so backlit that I couldn’t see him well.

“Step into the light.”

He stepped into the glow of the porch light. His face was swollen and covered in scratches, his head shaved. But it was Eric.

Eric was alive.

I opened the door. He limped past me into the apartment, then with great effort reached over me to shut the door and bolt it. I stood staring at him as he stumbled to the windows and pulled all the curtains shut, dripping all over the rug.

“I thought you were dead.” I blinked away tears, trembling.

He shivered. “Almost.”

Finally he turned to me, revealing the full damage to his face. His jaw was swollen, both of his eyes were black, and his nose was probably broken; blood seeped through the flimsy Band-Aids that held together the deep gash in his right cheek.

I moved toward him cautiously. “Take that off. You’re soaking wet.”

He flinched as I unzipped his hoodie. “I think my collarbone is broken. And some ribs.”

“Okay, we’ll go slow.”

He winced as I gently pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his swollen hand. “Probably broke my hand, too.”

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“No.”

I eased the sweatshirt over his distended shoulder, revealing gashes on his arms that bisected his tattoos. “We need to get you to a doctor ASAP.” I cast a glance around for my cell phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No.”

“Eric, you’re in bad shape. These wounds could get infected. Your bones won’t heal properly if they’re not set.…”

He swayed, unsteady. I helped him onto the couch, and he crumpled like a paper bag. “You can help me.”

“Eric, don’t be insane.”

“Please,” he begged. “You have to help me.”

I bent and unlaced his muddy boots, noticing one of his ankles was enlarged. “What happened to you?”

“Your message.” He closed his eyes. “I went. She was there.…She…”

“Summer was there?” I inferred. “Where? What did she do?”

He raised his feet up onto the couch with a groan. “I’ll tell you everything in the morning.”

So I was right. But what message? It took every ounce of my willpower not to question him further, but he looked so pitiful. “You can sleep in my bed,” I said, backing off. “I’ll take the couch.”