Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) (20 page)

“Open your eyes,” he whispers roughly into my ear. “See what you made me do.” I shake my head even though I know I don't really have a choice. He tightens his fingers around my throat and I can't help it – I open my eyes. At first it doesn't register what I'm looking at. The horror doesn't quite sink in. My Egyptian cotton sheets aren't white anymore. Neither are the walls. Everything is splashed pink and red and brown. There's a thick dark pool on the carpet, gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp. It almost looks black, it's so dark. A pair of legs hang over the side of the mattress, the toes barely grazing the floor. And his arms are thrown out wide-eagle, blood pooled in his palms.

His arms and his legs are all that are recognizable.

I can see the tattoo on his bicep and a thatch of blond hair on top of his head that's not completely soaked. My lips mouth his name, but it doesn't look like him at all. It looks like a mannequin or a doll that's been tossed in the middle of my bed and carved out until it's hollow. Blood and pulp and chunky bits of flesh and muscle are all that's left. I want to look away but I can't. This isn't real life, I tell myself. This is something else. Somewhere else. Then it dawns on me.

All this time, I've thought I was alive. I thought I was living this boring, monotonous life for a reason. I thought that I made a choice not to jump off that bridge in Alaska. I thought I pulled myself back from the brink. I gave myself too much credit, I guess. I've been dead for a long time. This isn't life. This is some weird in-between place. I try to tell myself that it's not real, that my husband hasn't been murdered and that the devil isn't breathing down the back of my neck. But Elliot's fingers dig into my flesh and I can smell the death in the room. I'm a master of denial, but it's hard to deny what's right in front of my face.

“I have another surprise,” he says. I don't fight him as he drags me over to the walk-in closet. I have no more strength left. I feel just as gutted as Mitch, like my insides are missing and my chest has filled up with air. I wonder vaguely if he's going to kill me now. He couldn't do it out on the lawn but maybe he's gotten his bloodlust back. “Open the door,” he tells me and I hesitate. The vintage glass knob that I spent so much time looking for in the shops in downtown Seattle are already mottled with dried blood, like rust. I don't want to touch it. “You'll like it,” he says a hint of something akin to a smile in his voice. He sounds proud, almost, like a child bringing home a good report card. Somehow, that's more terrifying to me than his anger.

“What is it?” I ask, a low whisper all I'm able to manage from my dry and tight throat.

“Shh,” he hushes, his breath like a light fingertip around the shell of my ear. Then he takes his hand away from my throat and sets it on the doorknob. “We don't want to scare her,” he says, then opens the door.

Chapter Sixteen

I
'm so fucking weak.

I've spent years in the harsh wilderness. It should've made me hard and unyielding and it has, to a point. It's been hard adjusting to being back in a big city. It's too noisy and there's too many people, but it's easy to blend in and hide amongst the homeless under the bridges and in the alleys. Around every corner is a memory and I've grown to hate Seattle with every fiber of my being in the past few days. But I'm here for one reason only; besides I couldn't stay away. I'm a Southern boy through and through and I miss the heat and the blistering sun and the dust and the smell, even. I haven't stepped foot in Texas in a long fucking time. When I left Alaska, my secondary goal was to get back to the heat. But first things first. I only came back for her, after all.

I didn't realize how much it would hurt. I didn't think I could hurt anymore, but I was wrong. I've been weak for her since the first time I ever saw her and nothing's changed. It doesn't matter what she's done or how much she's betrayed me. Watching her from afar for the past few weeks is nothing compared to being in her physical presence. When I watched her walk to and from her car or through the windows of this ugly, overpriced piece of shit that she calls home, it was easier. She was like an image on a TV screen. Untouchable and perfect and two-dimensional. It was easy to plot her death as I watched her kiss a man that wasn't me or smile and laugh with strangers like she didn't miss me at all. Touching her was a mistake, though. The knife was too up close and personal. It felt good to slice her asshole of a husband into ribbons, to feel his hot blood splash my face and see his skin split open and his eyes go glassy and lifeless as I played around with his insides. But as soon as I touched her, there was nothing to be done. I was back under her spell, just like no time had passed.

I should've brought a gun. Then I could've shot her from a fair distance. But what's done is done and I'm reworking my plan on the spot. There's already been a lot of adjustments I've had to make. I was never really good at implementing a fool-proof plan when it came to her. I always fuck up somehow. I let my temper get the best of me when I should stay calm. I know that about myself, but there's nothing I can do about it. When I'm in action, there's no stopping me. I'm like gasoline waiting for a spark.

It's been years since she last saw me and I know I look like shit. I can't sleep these days and I don't eat much either. I'm scarred up and missing pieces and my bones are sharp as blades under my skin. But she still looks like an angel sent down from heaven just for me. Her hair is thick and glossy and long. Her skin is smooth and unblemished. Her clothes look like they cost a lot of money and they fit her well. She looks nothing like the girl that I first spied in that dirty dive bar back in Austin, wearing a tight skirt and blue cowboy boots and a come-fuck-me expression on her face. But I can still see my Joanie beneath all the fake polish. My Joanie who is stronger and more dangerous than I'll ever be. I could feel her power over me the second I saw her at the bottom of the stairs, looking at me like she'd just seen a ghost.

I can't blame her. I've been a ghost for a long time.

It took me a few days to find her after I arrived back in the city. First, I went to the old condo and staked it out. It didn't take me long to realize she didn't live there anymore. A young couple with a baby had a minivan in the driveway and a dog in the backyard. Next, I tried her old office. She still worked for the same company, so it was relatively easy for a criminal like me to trace her that way. Then I found her new house and found out that she lived with a tall, skinny blond man whom I hated on sight. It took all of my strength not to burst through the window and murder both of them the first time I watched them.

They don't do anything special. They eat dinner together sometimes. He watches TV or works out on his treadmill when she's not there. They kiss each other on the mouth in the mornings before work. They either fuck in the dark or not at all, because the windows go dark in their bedroom ten minutes after they go upstairs at night like clockwork. I quickly discovered that on Thursdays, he played golf. Thursdays were the only night he arrived home before she did. So I didn't act too quickly. I took my time to plan it out. I decided it had to be a Thursday.

But the bastard surprised me.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice light but still piercing. She sounds different than she used to. Her voice is deeper, rougher around the edges, like she's permanently hoarse. As soon as she spoke to me, I heard the change and I knew it was because of me. The accident right before I had to leave Seattle fucked her up more than I realized. It makes me feel something I'm not used to feeling – guilt. But I think what I have for her will make up for it. She's freaking out now, but when she knows what kind of a man he was, she'll get over it. I've done many things, but I've never betrayed her like he did. When I was at my lowest point, when I wanted her so bad, I still couldn't. The bastard had her and he still fucked someone else, right under her nose.

“Shh,” I whisper, not wanting my little surprise to know that we have a guest. I still haven't figured out my new endgame. One part of my plan has been executed but I've changed my mind about the other part and been saddled with a whole new problem at the same time. I decide I'll ask Joanie what I should do. She always knows what to do. Besides, it's as much her problem as it is mine, now. “We don't want to scare her,” I say, pressing my mouth to her ear. She has grass in her hair and it's damp and smells like rain and earth. But underneath that, I can smell her perfume. She used to dab it behind her ears before work. I remember watching her get ready for work in the mornings. I used to be angry and jealous then, because I didn't want her to leave me. I didn't realize how good I had it back then. I didn't appreciate her when I had her. That's why she gave up on me. That's why she traded up for the dead bastard who played golf and bought her a big pretty house.

I grit my teeth as my heart starts to pump hot blood through my veins and I tell myself not to get mad again. Now is not the time. She won't open the closet door so I do it for her, ready to get everything out in the open. Her biggest secret is me and here I am. Later, maybe I'll share my secrets, but for now, I want her to know her husband's.

“Oh my God,” Joanie breathes as I open the door. My mysterious captive is on the floor, naked except for her bra. She's got her panties in her mouth and one of Joanie's expensive pillowcases over her head. She was screaming too much, so I had to shut her up while I got rid of the ball and chain. I immobilized her quickly with duct tape and it seems to be holding, thankfully. I wasn't thinking much about her at the time when I tossed her in the closet, I'll admit. I wasn't in my right mind. When it comes down to it, she's lucky to still be alive. Whether she'll stay that way has yet to be decided. The woman on the floor wiggles around and screams over and over again, her sounds of distress muffled. She's hysterical and I can't really blame her. But it's annoying as hell.

Joanie jerks against me, her fingernails digging into my forearms. Then she swings an elbow back into my gut and catches me by surprise. I loosen my grip for half a second and she slips out of my grasp, pivoting on her heel so fast that her wet hair slaps me in the face. She kicks me in the shin and shoves my chest and then runs. I feel the familiar spike of adrenaline flair up my spine and it reminds me of old times. It almost feels good, despite the fact that my shin hurts like a bitch. I grab for her but my hands catch nothing but air. She runs for the door but I'm not going to let her get very far. I just got her back, after all. I'm not ready to let her go.

I grab her arm with my good hand and throw her against the wall with a little too much force but I want her to know that I'm in charge. The back of her head bounces off the wall and she makes an odd little sound. I press my body against hers, flattening her to the wall and grab her face in my hands and force her to look at me. She doesn't look too good. Her face is pale. Her eyes are wide and her pupils are dilated. There's streaks of dirt on her cheeks. Her destroyed blouse gapes open and her bare chest is warm against mine and suddenly, all I want is for her to be naked underneath me. I want her legs around my waist and my lips against hers and my cock deep inside of her. I want to hear her whine as I fuck her until she can't control herself anymore. I want to fuck her until I forget all about her betrayal and she forgets all about the bloody messes I've made and all the years of shit between us.

I want to fuck her until she loves me again.

“Stop,” I say, when I can get control of myself enough to speak. If she keeps moving and fighting me, I might not be in control of what I do. I've been living too long without her. I've been living the life of a monk, practically. When I was on the boat, I didn't have a choice and it was what was best. But now, she's with me again and it's hard to control myself. The black hole in the center of my chest has stopped sucking everything in and the rage has cooled and now I just want her. The wanting is what always ruins everything. It's ruined me. As I stare down into her eyes, I can't remember a time when I didn't want her. She's taken over my whole life. How dare she think she could live a life without me? How dare she think that she could pretend that I never existed? She's can't.

“Who is that?” she says and the roughness on the edge of her voice reminds me of ripping a piece of paper, slowly.

“I don't know,” I say, honestly. I don't know and I don't care. The woman in the closet is just collateral. A trump card.

“Did you...” she trails off, her eyes going even wider.

“Did I what?” I ask.

“Where are her clothes?” she asked, wrapping her fingers around my wrists. She squeezes, and I can feel her bones against mine. “Why's she naked?” I can't help but snort out a laugh at her words as the realization comes over me of what she's accusing me of. Her husband was fucking someone else underneath her goddamn nose and she's accusing me? What a fucking joke.

“That's how I found her,” I say.

“What do you mean?” she asks, blinking like she's gone dumb all of a sudden.

“She was on top of him,” I say, spelling it out for Joanie. “Screaming her head off. They were so busy they didn't even see me coming.” I glance over my shoulder at the mess that I made in the middle of Joanie's bed. When I walked in the door and saw Joanie's husband fucking someone else, everything kind of went black. The rage took over. I was planning on killing him anyway, but seeing him like that made it even easier. Joanie squeezes my wrists again and I look back at her. She's staring past me to the bed. I know she's seeing past all the blood and guts and she's seeing what I saw. “Do you want me to do her? 'Cause I will. I'll fuck her up really good, if it'll make you happy,” I say and she flicks her eyes back to meet mine. I see the gears turning in her brain, finally. She's snapped out of the stupor she was in and I feel a little prick of something sharp under my ribcage.

“No,” she says, jerking her head in my grasp. I drop my hands to her shoulders and run my thumbs across her collarbones because I can't help myself. She's being selfless. She's not vengeful like me. She doesn't hate anyone on this Earth, except for maybe me. I've earned her hatred and then some. But so has the woman in the closet. That woman doesn't deserve mercy and yet I can tell that Joanie won't let me kill her. Maybe she's had her fill of blood and death already. It's too bad, really, because I have a feeling this is just the beginning. “What are you going to do?” she asks finally. I stare down at her, wondering the same thing. The room is starting to stink – the smell of death is unmistakeable. It reminds me of when I used to go hunting as a kid and cleaned the carcasses with my grandfather. It's making me anxious. I don't like the memory.

The woman in the closet won't shut the fuck up. My skin is tight and sticky from the blood and the mud. Joanie's clothes are filthy and ruined and her beautiful hair is hanging in clumps around her face. I feel like things are already spiraling out of my control. The longer we stay in the house the worse off we'll be. The longer the other woman stays alive, the worse off we'll be. The more she'll hear or see. The better witness she'll become. And evidence is mounting with every passing second – footprints, hairs, fibers, DNA. It was supposed to be a quick thing. I was supposed to slit both of their throats and then leave just as quietly as I'd come, leaving next to nothing behind. Then my ass was going to be on the road and heading south, away from gray skies and chilly air and rain. When I'm back down south, I know I'll be able to breathe again. Get my head on straight.

But I have to go soon.
We
have to go soon.

“Tell me what to do, Joanie. I'll do it,” I say.

And I'm serious.