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I need a drink. “No.”
“You know what I think, George?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless.”
She smiles. “I think this is humor on a cosmic level.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I haven’t set foot in the cottage in a long time. I wouldn’t be doing so now except for the fact that I can’t sleep, and I need to talk to Liam. I have to put a stop to him and his parties, even if they are self-serving, even if he is bribing his rich friends to buy my book and to talk about it to their rich friends.
This, and he needs to keep the girl away. I have to let him know this without saying why. He’s not allowed to invite her back here. She needs to stay away from me and away from my property.
The easiest way to fix the problem is to let him know that it’s time he moved himself back to the city. He’s worn out his welcome. As it is, I am having a hard enough time keeping the situation with Eve under wraps, and I don’t need it leaking out and somehow finding its way to my publisher, or worse, to the press. Not that they care all that much about me, but still. They’re more than welcome to write whatever they want about me and my drinking, about me behaving badly online, but my wife is off limits.
By the time I reach the steps, I am fuming. It’s four in the morning and the place is lit up like a Christmas tree. I know the girl isn’t here—at least she’s not supposed to be. She said she was driving back to the city on account of business. What kind of business, she did not offer up, but I’m pretty sure Liam mentioned once that she works in public relations. It seems altogether fitting, even though she doesn’t strike me as someone who intends to be a part of the working class for long.
Two raps and I twist the doorknob. Maybe I’ve had a few drinks, plus a painkiller or two, but then, maybe I’m just angry. My give-a-fuck meter is running on empty. This is my goddamned house; I’m not going to wait outside like I’m the guest.
Turning the handle, I’m both annoyed and surprised to find the door locked. I knock once again, but the music is loud and it’s doubtful Liam can even hear me over all of this nonsense.
When I go to bang on the thick cedar door a fourth time, I remember the spare key under the potted plant on the side of the cottage. It takes a bit of fumbling around in the dark, but eventually I locate it and open the front door.
I don’t know what I was expecting to find. Or honestly, what I expected the outcome to be. I just know it wasn’t this.
“George!” Liam exclaims over the bumping music. His voice is at full bore, straining the muscles in his chiseled neck. “Would you mind turning that down and giving me a hand?”
I back away, stepping over the threshold, nearly tripping out the door. “Good God,” he says, removing one of his gloves. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Car accident.”
“Today? Right now? Is that why you missed the party?”
I shake my head and continue in the opposite direction. “Doesn’t matter.”
“George,” he says, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you all right? You seem—”
“Where is she?” I ask as my eyes survey the mess: the blood and the plastic sheeting and the dripping saw.
He smears his gloved hand against his apron. “Who? Leslie?” Blood coats the front of it. A lot of blood. “She went back to the city.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ah,” he says, turning back to the body parts laid out on the plastic. “That’s no one.”
I’m going to be sick. Right there at his feet, imminently, he’s about to have more cleaning up to do. “What have you done?”
“I think you may have hit your head. Come here,” he motions. “Let’s take a look. Are you bleeding?”
I scan the living room. There’s an arm and a leg, and part of something…it’s all strewn about like pieces to a puzzle. Upon closer inspection, I try to see if I can find any indication that it might be Leslie. There are tufts of blonde hair and the limbs are fair skinned and slim, although other than that I can’t make out anything discernible. But then, I can’t locate a head.
“Do you know how much blood a person can lose before they die, George?”
He’s talking about exsanguination. I first learned about it after Eve was attacked in college. I’d wanted to know how close I’d actually come to losing her. Pretty close, as it turns out.
“Two and a half to four liters on average,” I say. “But it depends on several factors.”
His bottom lip juts out. “Such as?”
