Page 44 of Dark Ugly Places

“Yeah, like a professional.”

“Like, a stranger. Someone not from here. Someone who doesn’t even know who he is and doesn’t care.”

Whitney pats her on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

After they leave, my heart races for a good two minutes as I try to keep Martha at bay. There’s a deep thudding in my temple, low and persistent.

When I close my eyes, I can see the brightness of the car approaching—a white specter just in my peripheral. Then Emmy’s scream, the impact of body to vehicle, the gut-wrenching terror of moving through the air, being thrown from the hood right onto the asphalt, where I turned to see Ben, his hand bent unnaturally. Leg twisted inward. His face tilted away from me, blood pooling beneath his body.

Martha is needling inside me, picking at the threads of the entire conversation, pulling words out.

The wife is a nervous wreck. She knows what he did.

“How can I be sure? I mean, it’s the same car, but is it actually him?” I whisper alone in the stall.

Of course it is. Get closer, and you’ll see.

I pull back my hair into a ponytail and shove my stinky clothes far down into the trash can.

When I exit the stall, I pass myself in the mirror and stand for a moment, noticing the stark contrast between Bambi and me. I don’t have her polish, her beauty, her presence. I’m smaller and can clearly see my unkempt figure, the washed-out look of my skin, the lopsided, broken appearance of my body. It’s as though I’m a fragment of a person, all knotted up and twisted from what I used to be.

Don’t you worry, Martha intones inside me. You’ve got me. We can fix this.

Outside at the bar, a short, balding man thrusts a tray full of pre-poured champagne into my hands. “Serve these, then come back and get the tapas. Everything is just settling down after the incident,” he whispers.

“The incident?”

He makes a face at me, annoyed or repulsed—I can’t tell. “Mr. Redfern had a reaction to the shellfish. Only serve what I give you, understand?”

“Right.” I force a nod, trying to look efficient.

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

The dining room is jammed with people, bodies shoulder to shoulder, loud voices overtalking each other. The crowd is difficult to get through, tight cliques and elbows pushing me like I’m not even there. Bambi and Jason are easy enough to spot in the center of the room, surrounded by a throng of well-dressed men and women.

I recognize him right away from the hotel, looking as if nothing much has happened. I scoot around the periphery, careful to avoid his eyes, blending in with the crowd. He, of course, is the one doing the talking while everyone listens. Bambi is next to him. Nearing the table, I approach, forcing a smile. Martha is pinching, pushing, driving me with every step. She wants a closer look at them both. How can I blame her? Only … I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.

Then, as I approach, a woman to his right turns, takes a glass from my tray without asking, unbalancing it from my hands. I try to steady it, but Martha has other plans. The tray drops. Champagne and glass spill to the floor, a fantastic crash of glass and liquid over my feet. People stop and stare at me. Smirking glances. Snickers. They turn away, disinterested, and I feel my body sinking to the floor. My hands sweep up the mess with the cloth of my tray, but my mind is elsewhere.

That’s it. Right here, Martha whispers. Follow my gaze.

There’s a sharp object in my hand. Blood oozing, oozing. That perfect, unmatched color. A sting and a prick. I pluck the glass from my palm and hold it to the light, blood dripping down my wrist.

Forget about that. Look up.

She tilts my chin, a forceful but not uncomfortable nudge. I twitch a little and glance up at Redfern and his wife, still chattering. The angle is so familiar, being down on the ground like this. In the light, I notice his shoes. Black and shiny, almost oversized, slightly raised heel. Like a flash in the back of my brain, I see him stepping from the white Rolls-Royce, first one foot, then the other.

It’s him.

I know this already, I tell her.

With the large piece of glass in my fingers, my obscure reflection in its curve, I see myself and her there all at once. She gazes back at me, happily.

That’s right, it’s him. And what are you going to do about it?

Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. I feel her confirm what must be done.

“Nothing. We can’t do anything!” I tell her under my breath, careful not to let anyone hear our conversation. “This has to stop—do you hear me?”