Page 50 of Miserable Marionette

His eyes are glued to mine, holding me hostage until I break it with a scoff. “What for?” Determined to look anywhere else, the drapes, the carpet, ceiling fan, which he also dusted, his black dress socks, my bare feet nearly toe to toe with them. I don’t expect him to answer as he releases the plate.

But of course, Gideon rarely does what I think he’ll do. Case in point: him standing in my house cooking me dinner.

“So much. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry I didn’t call, that I ever left. Every day I regretted it, wished I’d have done it differently, better somehow.” His voice is raw, strained. He means it, maybe more than even I realize.

Flush creeps down my neck, a sudden, annoying burn in the back of my eyes.

He’s sorry.

“Thank you… for making dinner.”

“Of course, puppet.”

My legs press together under the hot plate at the bizarre endearment as he heads back to the kitchen, leaving me there to sink into the couch.

24

Creating Scraps

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

Audrey is quiet for the rest of the night, but I’ll take any time with her I can get. Like a dog starving and begging for scraps outside a Michelin-star restaurant. Each molecule of my being is hardwired, tense, as she stands beside me, drying the dishes I hand her, eyeing bracelets covering the scars on her wrist. Her golden blonde hair stands out against the black T-shirt she threw on. I wish she would ask me again.

Say the words she did all those years ago so I could tell her what I feel for her is far worse than love. That I’ve missed her, that I’ve been killing women for seven years because I needed her like I need the air in my lungs. That every move, every thought, every beat of the organ in my chest has been at her will alone since the day we met. Since I watched the pretty crimson pool form under her head. Since I decided she was going to live… for me. That she was helpless and cute and my responsibility. That I didn’t leave because I was through with her, that I—

The phone rings, making her head snap up as she discards her dish towel and rushes away. Immediately, I regretted hooking the phone back up earlier so she could call Mrs. Johnson.

“Hello?”

I cant my head, slowly shutting off the water so I don’t miss anything she says.

Who would be calling you this late at night, puppet?

It’s nearly ten.

“Oh, no. That’s fine, I just—"

They cut her off, and I barely feel it as the knife in my hand slices my palm from where I’d gripped the blade.

“I just don’t know how much help I’ll be, but if you need me—" She lets out a soft, exasperated chuckle. It's empty, and it damn well better be. My blood drips into the bubbles, popping them as it goes, tinging the water pink. “Of course I’d do anything to help. Eight in the morning. Bye.”

My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches as I school myself, fighting for neutrality as she rejoins me.

“I guess they need a—Oh my god, Gideon, you’re bleeding!”

I ignore her as she removes the knife from my palm, her fingertips cold on my waterlogged hand as she wraps it in a dish towel. I don’t bother telling her how unsanitary that is. I’m too busy teetering between delighted she’s touching me and caving her head in unless she tells me who the fuck she’s seeing at eight. “Who called?”

“God, it looks deep. Gideon, should we go get stitches? What in the hell—"

“Audrey,” I snap, clearing my throat when she flinches, abruptly halting her fussing over me. Which only adds to the sudden buzzing. I had forgotten how quiet she keeps my mind until now. “Who called?”

She huffs. “You’re a nosey asshole, you know that?”

I glare.

“Officer Braylon, they want to see me in the morning. They’re trying to figure out Bryan’s last few days, I guess.”

Eight? That works for me.