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It stung. The power slipped back out of my hands.
He rubbed his thumb over my cheek, kind of soothingly, and my heartbeat hitched. I knew it was wrong. Laurel and Clem and Rachel were waiting outside, wondering what was taking so long. And there I was, standing in a bar with Rachel’s dad, wanting something I wasn’t supposed to want.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “Tell me your father’s name.”
I was surprised but said, “He barely counts. But his name was Peter.”
He leaned in and said, in a low voice, like a secret, “You can tell me anything, you know. Feel however you want to feel. It’s only natural. Give yourself a break.”
My heart was racing… I couldn’t tell if he knew what I really wanted. Then he whispered, “If you want to call me Don, or Dad, or Peter, do it. Anything you want, okay? Don’t worry so much. Whatever makes you feel good.” Then he put his arm around my waist and kind of pushed me toward the door. He said, “Go home with your friends, young lady.”
JAMIE:And none of that struck you as strange?
SHAY:It did. But not an off-putting strange. A strange that intrigued me. The truth is, Iwantedto know what he thought of me. I even wanted him to tell me what to do. Back then I was kind of lost. And half in love with the version of him from my daydreams.
(Silence.)
(Throat clearing.)
JAMIE:Maybe we should quit for now. It’s late. I can hear in your voice how tired you are. Your eyes are barely staying open.
SHAY:But I have to tell you the next part…
(Heavy breathing.)
When we went to his house…
End of transcript.
***
I woke, squinting, as Jamie bent over me, his face close to mine for the first time since the hot baths. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I was too tired to care. I felt a blanket, stiff with starch but warm, slide up my shoulders. He was tucking me in.
My voice was small and faraway. “I can leave.”
“Shh,” he said and settled on the floor.
Chapter Ten
I went back to Tongue-Cut Sparrow the next night, ignoring Cal’s calls and lying to Jamie, telling him I didn’t feel well. In a way, it was true: ever since waking up in his hotel room with Don’s unburied name thick in my throat, I’d burned feverish todo something. Make progress, no matter the risk. Saying Don’s name out loud for the first time in years had sparked something back to life—cracked opened the door to the past—and I needed it dead and closed as quickly as possible. But I couldn’t do that until I found out the truth about Laurel.
I knew part of that truth was waiting at the Sparrow. It was an instinct, a recognition that had welled inside me when the woman in the hot bath whispered what she could do to me. I didn’t like it, but I knew why Laurel might have been drawn to this.
So I’d almost clawed my skin off waiting for nightfall, and then I drove through the darkness back to the Hudson Mansion, rapped on the black door, paid the fine, took the pill. Now I was back inside the cave, the goblin market, slipping between hungry people, the crowd bigger than the night before, the music louder, the effects of the drug anticipated but still disorienting.
Jamie would be pissed I’d lied and come alone. But without him, I was a rabbit in a wolf’s den, and they would show their teeth quicker. If I was born bait, I would at least dangle myself.
And it worked. All night I’d entertained conversations from people looking to buy me, or sell themselves—up until the point I asked my questions about Laurel, and their eyes glazed over, or narrowed in confusion, and soon they were walking away in favor of someone less complicated. A few warned me, similar to what the man had said last night:Don’t ask questions. You won’t like the consequences.
This time around, I clocked the watching eyes. Large, well-dressed men, like the man at the door, tucked unobtrusively into corners, eyes sliding over the dance floor, dipping into the hot baths, watching and waiting. They were the consequences, presumably.
I’d had enough of dead ends. I knifed across the dance floor to the bathroom, thinking to regroup, plot a different strategy. Would someone be more forthcoming if I agreed to their price and got them alone? Would they talk in the afterglow? What wouldn’t I do to know the truth about Laurel, the friend I’d failed to protect?
I pushed open the heavy door. The bathroom was menacing and beautiful: dark as sin, dim light from waxy, flickering candles, and round mirrors, each of them cracked through the middle.
The door closed behind me and snuffed out the music, leaving nothing but the bass vibrating the walls, becoming an anxious crawl under my skin. The bathroom was empty except for a single woman at the end of the counter, snorting a line. She looked up.
“Sorry,” I said, halting in place.
