Without consciously deciding to, I slow my steps, taking in every detail of the way he looks. I’ll never see him again after this. I’ll never run my hands through his soft hair or feel those hazel eyes on me. I’ll never fight to get ‘Dark One’ removed from my file. I’ll never marry him or bear his children.
It was foolish to hope for those things anyway.
We reach the Lyrie house. It’s large and white, with black shutters and a well-kept lawn. I’ve seen it multiple times, but only ever in passing. At night, it feels even more ominous than it does during the day. There are too many trees clustered around the front of the house, their skeletal branches looming above us.
“Step up,” I tell Elliot as we reach his porch. There’s a porch swing on one side with brightly colored pillows and a thin rug that stretches to the opposite corner. A wreath hangs on the door, heavy with violent orange and red and yellow leaves. Mama Blake has one like it, but the Lyrie one is larger, fuller. More expensive, undoubtedly.
“You smell nice,” Elliot murmurs, his breath tickling the crown of my head. “Like honey.”
I don’t. I smell like sweat and anxiety, a potent combination from hours of nightmares. Visions of Harrison holding me down, of those fish watching from the corner, letting it happen.
A flash of Elliot’s memories flares through my own. Harrison’s lifeless eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
It’s an impossible, unbearable combination of relief and guilt. He’s dead and I am relieved, but it was Elliot and it’s my fault and if I don’t fix it, his entire life will be ruined because ofme.
“Have we met before?” Elliot asks.
The question eviscerates my heart, but it’s a good thing. The best possibility. He doesn’t remember me, and yet, he sounds more lucid than he did a few minutes ago. Now, I can only hope he’s disoriented enough to forget everything that’s happened in the past twenty minutes.
This long walk from Mama Blake’s house to his own, the fact I’m here at all, dragging him to his front door.
“No,” I say. The word catches in my throat, garbled enough I’m not sure he’s heard it.
“You’re pretty,” he says. “What’s your name?”
He’s definitely still disoriented. It took Elliotyearsto confess he found me pretty, and he’d been drunk then.
I swallow, steadying him roughly against me. We’re at his front door, the wreath glaringly bright between us. Elliot stumbles forward, and this time, I let him. He slumps against the white stucco of his house, staring at me with confusion and wonder and…
I close my eyes. That’s the last time he’ll ever say those words to me, so I let them absorb into my skin. I inhale them with each unsteady breath.
You’re pretty.
You smell good.
I killed him, Secora. He’ll never touch you again.
I open my eyes. My entire body is trembling as I look back to Elliot. It’s a relief, truly, that he’s fallen asleep. His chest rises steadily, mouth parting softly. I’ve never seen him sleep before.
I never will again.
I knock on the door, harder than I should given the circumstances. I should have checked Elliot’s pockets first. If I weren’t a trembling, emotional mess, I would have. I wouldn’t risk someone else in this fancy neighborhood hearing me, peeking through their expensive curtains to see us standing here. Me in my nightclothes. Elliot in a blood-soaked shirt.
The door opens.
I’ve seen Madam Lyrie many times before, but this is the closest I’ve ever stood. I’d seen her across the playground, picking Elliot up from school. I’d seen her give speeches on big stages, making grand promises that too often didn’t come to fruition. And I’d seen her last week, in that horrible auditorium, surrounded by a select few council members.
Elliot wasn’t allowed to come with me. I’d stood there alone while she told me there was no proof of Harrison’s wrong-doing. There would be no trial. No viewing of my memories. No justice. And as for me,mytrial for Gregg’s injury would still be forthcoming. I was dismissed, never being allowed a word.
Up close, Madam Lyrie looks…pleasant. She seems like the type of woman Mama Blake would have as a friend, though I knew they weren’t. I’d never questioned that before now. Even with Elliot and Margot’s friendship, Mama Blake never spoke of Madam Lyrie at all.
Maybe that should have been a warning in itself.
Madam Lyrie’s hair is braided, and she’s wearing simple orange pajamas. Her feet are bare, and she looks like she’d been fast asleep. When she blinks, I realize it might not be sleep alone that’s given her this hazy expression.
He drugged her, I realize.Gave her something to ensure she wouldn’t catch him leaving.
“You’ve been drugged,” I inform her. My words are fuzzy in my ears, sounding foreign, even to me. “You’ll need to sort that first.”
