Behind Every Lie(60)

“No problem.” He gave me a wry little smile. “I’ll even go with you if you want.”

I washed my hands with soap and hot water, using the dish scrubber to scrape at the epoxy on my fingertips. When I’d finished, my hands were raw and bright red.

Liam grabbed the salmon out of the fridge.

I sat at the island, watching him bustle about the kitchen as I sipped my wine. The tannins tingled delicately at the back of my throat. The wine hitting my empty stomach created a glorious sense of floating inside a feather pillow.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Andrew had said. Had Mom really bought a gun because she was scared of me? I wasn’t in my right mind after the rape, and I was even more messed up after I gave the baby up. But the thought that she’d bought a gun because I scared her made me feel physically sick to my stomach.

More proof that I couldn’t trust myself.

Liam washed the salmon and set it on a wooden cutting board. He pulled a gleaming black boning knife from the knife block, pressed the knife into a point behind the fish’s head, and sliced through the ribs to the tail, then backward, from tail to head, until he had two glistening pink fillets. Then he slipped the knife between the rib bones and flesh, grasped the bones, and ripped them out in one swift movement.

My stomach turned, nausea shimmering in my gut. The knife glinted under the kitchen can lights, sparking the memory again, now sharply etched, demanding to be seen.

I look down at my hands. A knife is resting in my outstretched palm. One of my mom’s wooden-handled knives. It’s covered in blood. I fold my fingers over the blade, squeezing until the blade digs into the soft skin of my palm, slicing deeply, crimson blood running free.

I got up and crossed the kitchen to grab the open bottle of wine from the countertop. As I refilled my glass, my eyes fell on the knife block, sitting innocuously next to the microwave. I reached for the other boning knife. Despite being small and narrow, it was surprisingly heavy. I turned it over in my hand, the blade flashing black against my pale skin. The handle scraped against the crusted scab on my left hand and I winced.

I curled my fingers around the handle. My brain was light as a feather, a cluster of bubbles floating and twisting in the breeze.

This knife was totally different than the one I remembered from Mom’s, a pale wood handle with black Japanese steel compared to Mom’s dark-wood handle and silver-steel blade. And yet …

It felt familiar. I could imagine the blade slippery with blood, the weight of it in my hand, the sharp, narrow blade hot and slick as it sliced into my palm.

I was there.

I remember.

Don’t I?

I closed my eyes as an unexpected anger hissed through my body like poison, screeching a demand to be released. I gritted my teeth, pain shooting from my molars to my temples.

The problem was, I liked it.

“Eva?” Liam’s voice snapped me back to reality.

I whirled around unsteadily. My body weaved as I blinked at him, the walls swaying behind him. He had a strange look on his face. A worried look.

How long had he been talking to me?

Liam walked slowly toward me, his hands outstretched. He reached for the knife. I yanked it away from him, rage coursing through me deliciously.

“Eva.” His voice was firm, authoritative.

I fucking hated it when he used that stupid boomy voice on me. Like I was one of his minions. Like I was just someone to—

“Give me the knife, Eva.”

I looked into his clear blue eyes and the strange black cloak that had descended on me tumbled to the floor.

“Sorry. Here.” I thrust the knife toward him, blade down. I felt dizzy and light-headed.

Liam plucked it from my outstretched hand and slid it back into the block. He put his hands on my shoulders and led me back to my seat at the island.

“Here. Sit back and relax.” He set my wineglass in front of me and returned to preparing dinner in that efficient, single-minded way he had, as if I hadn’t just acted like a completely insane person.

He babbled on and on about a vacation to Vancouver and his plans for extending the greenhouse, and then I lost the thread of what he was saying. I couldn’t concentrate on his words.

I tried to remember the psychological symptoms Dr. Simm had told me I might experience. Was trouble concentrating one of them? Why was Liam talking about Vancouver? I seriously couldn’t give any less of a fuck what he did with the greenhouse.

I staggered to the bathroom to pee. I flushed and turned the faucet on, letting the cool water run over my wrists and splashing it on my pink cheeks. I used my damp fingers to smooth my disheveled hair.

The feel of my fingers on my hair called up a memory so powerful it twisted something in my stomach. I was sitting on the floor at Mom’s feet in a bedroom I didn’t recognize. Mom was sitting on the bed as she slowly, steadily pulled a brush through my long hair. Delightful chills chased up my neck as the brush scraped over my scalp. When she finished, I asked if I could brush her hair. We switched places, her on the floor, me on the bed, the brush in my hands.

I could hear my child voice in my head: “Why’s your hair yellow and mine’s red?”

“Red hair is caused by an MC1R mutation found on chromosome sixteen,” she’d replied.

“What’s a mootation?” I asked.

She’d blinked at me like she’d suddenly realized where she was. Her face softened. “It means when you were a baby, a fairy kissed you right here.” She tapped me on my nose. “She knew that redheads are the warriors of the world, and it would make you brave and brilliant and bold. Her kiss turned your hair red.”