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He pecks me in the mouth before heading out of the room.
I tuck my arm beneath his pillow, nestling deeper into the bed and drifting off to sleep.
Christian walks into the studio with a grim look on his face.
My stomach lurches at the cold look in his eyes. It’s one that I haven’t seen since the night he cut up the body.
The memories of that night come rushing back. The rusty smell, the grating sound of the saw grinding bone.
It’s hard to look at him as he stands in front of the couch and looks down at me.
“I have to go out for a little bit. I’ll probably be gone until later this evening. Camila is on her way over. She said something about wanting to spend some time with you this afternoon.”
I nod, trying to slow my racing pulse. “What do you have to do?”
His gaze softens. “Zoe, don’t ask me that unless you want to know the answer, alright? I’m not going to lie to you.”
I swallow hard and nod. “Okay. Stay safe.”
Christian stoops to kiss me. A caress, but no more. “I will be. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
He walks out the door, shutting it behind him as I set my guitar to the side.
As I pull my knees to my chest, the panic starts to bubble.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been able to put the thought of what he does for a living mostly out of my mind. He goes to work at the trainyard every morning and then he comes home at night.
I don’t think about what he does between those hours.
But there’re times like right now when it’s hard to pretend that I don’t know what he does for a living.
There’re times when I can’t ignore the fact that he kills people.
My stomach tosses and turns. Bile rises in my throat.
I don’t want to know what he’s doing today, even though I asked.
I still haven’t figured out how to mesh the two sides of Christian together in my mind.
Some days I think that I will never be able to.
How can I fall in love with a man who kills people with no remorse?
They might not be good people, but I’ve seen the coldness in him. It’s like Christian shuts parts of himself off when he has to take lives.
The door to the studio opens, light flooding the space before I can go down the spiral.
Camila walks into the room, her maxi skirt swirling around her legs.
She takes one look at me before sitting down on the couch beside me and looping an arm over my shoulders.
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” she murmurs. “Tell me what’s bothering you right now. And don’t try to start that don’t worry about me thing. We’re sisters now. I’m here to support you.”
I look at her as my vision starts to blur. “Does it ever get easier?”
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that.”
