Page 35 of The Devil

She shakes her head and we climb out, then head to her apartment. She opens her purse and fishes out the key. I hold my hand out and, with a roll if her eyes, she hands it to me. Once we’re inside, I switch on the lights.

Although neat and tidy, the apartment is small. I think the entire place would fit in my living room with room left over. “You have five minutes to get your things,” I tell her as she slips her cloak off.

“I’ve been here three months. I’m going to need more than five minutes.”

“Well, you have five minutes so prioritize.”

“Asshole,” she mutters then turns and walks down the hall to her bedroom, hands clenched into fists, muttering some nonsense. I follow her, feeling weirdly happy.

Once we reach her bedroom, she switches on the light and faces me. “If you’re so anxious, let’s just get it done here and now. Get it over with.”

I snort, make a point of looking at the tiny, rickety looking bed over her shoulder. “For what I have planned, we’re going to need a bigger, sturdier bed.” I turn back to her. “With posts,” I add, narrowing my eyes at her.

She swallows, then steels herself. “Well, sadly this was all your watch could afford me.”

I feel myself tense. “That watch was important.”

“I didn’t think you’d miss it. I mean, it was tossed in the back of your drawer and broken, and you have what? A dozen more? Fucking rich people.” She tosses over her shoulder and starts to walk away but I grab hold of her and tug her back.

“You think you understand things you don’t understand. You shouldn’t have taken it and definitely not pawned it. If you needed money, you could have asked me. I’d have given it to you.”

“Oh yeah. So, if I’d asked you for a couple thousand dollars you’d just have handed it to me?”

“Yeah, actually, Amal. I’d have given you anything you asked for.”

That is not what she’s expecting to hear and I’m not sure who’s more surprised by that admission, me or her.

“Why? Why would you do that?” she finally asks.

“Doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Everything’s different now. Five minutes.”

I release her and leave the bedroom before I can do or say something else stupid. I walk back down the hall where she set her purse on the table by the door. Habit, I guess. I pick it up, go into the small living room and plop down on the couch. I open the tote.

She’s got lipstick in there, a compact, a couple of notebooks, one spiral bound, the other looks like an old diary for a little girl who likes princesses and pink. It even has what was once a small lock that’s broken.

In addition, I see two phones, one which is a burner. I pocket the burner and try to switch on the other one but it’s completely out of charge so I pocket that as well. Taking one of the notebooks out, I set her purse aside to flip through it, reading her notes. Her handwriting is tiny and neat but it’s just a jumble, nothing concrete that will give me an indication of what she’s doing in Scotland. I mean, fucking Scotland? It’s nice, I’m sure, but what is here for her? On various pages, I do see some crossed off names and addresses. All men, I note.

The diary is larger and pretty beat up. The top is stained and warped. I wonder if it was her childhood diary. Flipping through, I glimpse the date on one of the entries. It’s from seventeen years ago and the handwriting is not that of a little girl. I hear a sound from the bedroom and glance up, but it’s just her slamming some shit around so I return my attention to the diary and read a few sentences, not much of which makes sense. I flip farther back to find the first entry is over twenty years old.

It’s not her diary.

Before I can search further, I hear Amal’s footfalls as she approaches. I close the diary and pocket the smaller notebook. My gaze catches on the book lying on the dining table. The Bloody Chamber. The book she ‘borrowed’ from me.

When she enters the room, her gaze lands on that book. “Here. I’m returning your book,” she says, picking it up and holding it out for me. She’s got a large duffel slung over one shoulder.

I chuckle, standing, and open my mouth to say something but when she sees the diary in my hand, her face loses all color.

“That’s mine!”

She drops the duffel and runs to grab the diary. I pull it out of reach just because. “Take it easy. You’ll tear it. It’s old.”

“Give it to me. That’s none of your business. I mean it, Jet. Give it to me.”

“Whose is it?”

She shakes her head but keeps her lips tightly sealed. I cock my head waiting.

“It’s mine,” she lies.