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The loft is practically untouched by the time the sun is setting. Soft wind blows in the open window, New York City chaos and traffic hot on its gentle heels. It keeps the lemon scent of floor polish from being too suffocating, and the noise almost quiets the nagging in my mind.
The patch of floor was too obvious, so I ended up mopping and coating the whole loft. Even went under the soft rug, and then combed out the footprints and scuffs he and I left. The bathroom nearly glistens, the stove twinkling like starlight.
I've gone numb enough to wash the plate by now. I've cried out all the tears in my body, I think. There's nothing left.
I desperately want to go to sleep. But I promised myself I'd get out of his hair before he needed to come back for a change of clothes or anything.
If I'm lucky, he can sleep in his own bed tonight. Not wherever he's currently hiding from me.
Okay, maybe I'm not out of tears.
I shake myself and dry off the plate, putting it back where it came from. The frying pan is harder to place, but I think I put it back from where he pulled it. The table is set, and the pillows are plumped. I put the bags by the door. I figure it’s better to let him take them back himself, so he doesn’t think I’m stealing from him. That’s not why I wanted to be here.
Why Iwantto be here.
The leggings and tee and sandals are almost two-hundred dollars, and I have no idea how much the soap costs. But I know where I can get the money, and I’ll just leave it with Eustice so he doesn’t have to see me again.
I’ve got it all figured out.
I stand in the middle of the loft for a minute, watching the elevator door. I want it to open so badly, want him to come home. He could act like nothing happened, he could scream and punch walls and throw doors some more, he could completely ignore me. I just want him to come back.
But he doesn’t. And he won’t.
I wipe the fingerprints I left the very first night off the doors with my T-shirt, effectively erasing myself from the building. It’s like I never set foot in this place. I wonder how long it’ll be before he knows I’m gone–maybe I’ll get lucky and I can get the money back before he does.
All I want is for him to be okay. And I should’ve left the moment I realized that, because if my life has taught me anything, I know the last thing I bring to the table is peace. My stepfather’s life is ruined by heartbreak, my mom is dead, and even Chuck didn’t survive. All because of me.
I just hope it’s enough to leave, to take away the burden I forced upon Ghost. I hope it’ll make him happy. I hope he sleeps better, knowing he’s free of me. Knowing he did a good thing and released me from the hell I suffered, and he never has to think of me again.
I take the stairs down to the lobby—they don’t go any further down than that, no entry to the floors he forbade me from visiting—and am surprised to find it bustling with life. A few normal looking stragglers wander around, arm in arm, pointing out the paintings and discussing the art Ghost picked out for this portion of the venue, but most everyone in here is dressed to the nines. Women in floor length gowns, men in pressed, expensive suits, all roaming around and conversing like they’re at the Met Gala.
The concert hall is closed tonight, blocked off with thick velvet ropes, and nothing eventful seems to be happening. No signs or notices about a special, no unveiling of a new, rare painting. Is Vie De Mort so fanciful that this is how people attend it normally?
Suddenly feeling even more out of place than I had before, I rush to the front and hide behind the counter. I lower my head to hide behind my hair, setting Ghost’s shirt and the towel I used behind the desk for Eustice. I don’t know where they keep the laundry, so I hope it’s alright to leave it for her.
Maybe I was hoping she’d be here to stop me. I haven’t even met her yet, but Ghost made her sound important. Or those other guys, Mayhem and Murder, I thought they’d be stalking around down here like the guard dogs they are…
But they’re not. Even skimming the crowd, I don’t recognize a soul.
I guess that’s my sign.
“Van Gogh certainly has a way with the macabre.”
I startle and jump back from the well-dressed man on the other side of the desk. I was so busy searching the crowd for Ghost, I didn’t even hear him walk up. He’s got his back turned to me, his eyes trained on a French painting of water lilies. Which isn’t macabre at all.
“I think that’s a Monet,” I mumble, sliding out from behind the counter before he figures out I don’t work here and calls security.
He turns to face me fully, raising a brow as he takes me in. He’s younger than Ghost, but not by much, with sandy blond hair and vibrant green eyes. Tattoos peek out from his suit jacket; the only visible one on his hand is fine gray line work, a lion with rose petals surrounding its face in a mane. He even has a teardrop inked on his eye, but that one isn’t nearly as well done as the beast, far older and not near as looked-after.
He’s vicious. I can see it clearly in his older, darkened gaze, though he regards me gently, curiously, like I’m some precious gemstone he happened to find buried in a junk drawer. “What was that?”
“S-Sorry,” I stammer, “you probably weren’t even talking to me.”
His hand is around my wrist before I can get around him, and though his grip is light, sirens wail in my mind.
“Well, who else was I talking to, then?”
I don’t dare take my eyes off his to look around for an answer to that. This doesn’t feel safe for me, and maybe it’s just because I wish it were Ghost, or maybe it’s because this man is being kind and I don’t know what to do with kind men, but I want more than anything to run screaming.
