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Jaw tensed, he slipped into his underwear, socks, slacks. Possibilities turned over in his head to account for Kenna’s abrupt departure but a plausible explanation evaded him. He struggled with the buttons on the shirt, missing the slits by miles and cursing under his breath. Dayton migrated to the full-length mirror but soon forgot he was getting dressed as his eyes continuously darted to the reflection of his socks.
His hands fell away from the half-buttoned shirt. Sweat collected in the middle of his back.
The box.
The room spun around him amid his frantic collapse to the floor. On his knees, he peered below the bed. No relief came upon seeing it exactly where he’d left it. He pulled out the box and his heartbeat was an anthem for the paranoid as he tore through the contents.
Nothing was out of place, the image of a dormant Kenna resting on the bottom.
He disregarded the mess on the floor and buttoned the rest of his shirt, tucked it into his slacks, and threaded his belt through its loops, buckling it with a final flourish.
As Dayton swiped his cuff links off the dresser, he noticed the more recently developed Polaroid. He fixated on it as he wrestled with the accessory.
Rays of light streamed across her face and chest. Though her head was turned to one side, it was impossible to overlook the solemnity of her expression, mouth drawn in a tight line. There seemed to be an artificial wideness to her eyes as she looked down into the mirror.
Where he’d asked her to look.
Kenna was grateful upon discovering Alex wasn’t home. The extent of her acting skills had been exhausted at Dr. Merino’s house. She didn’t want to be asked why she was sniffling or slamming cabinetry or throwing things. She had to handle the full scope of this breakdown, alone, and then she’d pick up the pieces, just as she had always done.
But she knew this time was different, that some of those pieces would never fit the same way again.
She tore off her clothes in hot pursuit of the bathroom. A shower was her lone hope of clearing her head, if only a little, before reevaluating the files on her computer. Kenna’s eyes stung as she spun the faucet. It was as if someone had dumped teaspoons of salt into them. The strain made her drowsy.
Steam filled the room, blanketing her in warmth, and she was tempted to curl up in her bed and surrender to the rest her eyes demanded. She dismissed the idea entirely as she reached to unhook her bra and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
A bruise, violet and ugly, bloomed across her shoulder.
Kenna let her fingers brush against it. She felt the familiar welling of tears but it was a phantom sensation. The reservoirs of her red eyes were rusted and depleted. Her heart ached for the girl in that reflection, no longer recognizable.
What kind of darkness had she surrendered to in which she’d even conceive of letting someone hurt her so?
Tearing the hanging bra off her form, she slung it into the wastebasket and did the same with the underwear, stepping into the shower stripped of everything but feeling. It was all she could do.
Replay the hurt. Harness the fury.
The scalding water provided a mild comfort through her cycling of emotions. Kenna hung her head and clawed at the back of her neck. Water trickled from her hair into her mouth as she opened it to shout but she was unable to manufacture a sound, like the pain had made a home within her and refused eviction.
With frenzied hands, she washed every crevice of her body over and over again. She fought to scrub herself clean of the memories of Dr. Merino’s bed. His voice echoed through her head–darling, lamb, I know what you want–once sweet sounding but now antagonizing as she buffed her skin until the loofah felt like sandpaper and she looked down and saw that her arms were pink.
How could he have done this to her?
The man who’d once confessed after a few drinks that maybe he cared a little bit, too.
Kenna deconstructed that line while tucking a towel around herself, understanding that Dr. Merino hadn’t cared about her nor their working relationship.
He cared only about the perverse pleasure of getting off on taking half-clothed pictures of women he’d manipulated.
And yet, amid her intense displeasure, she found it difficult to reduce him to someone whose existence thrived on the thrill of sexual exploitation. It seemed far too simple and doubt tantalized her curiosity like the inaugural hit of an amphetamine that seals one’s addiction.
Feeling unsafe even in her own company, she locked her bedroom door. She took up residence at her desk and forewent clothing. Getting dressed would’ve been a useless exercise.
There weren’t enough layers of fabric in existence to stop the spread of the chills seeping under her skin.
Kenna pulled up every file, note, and document she’d accumulated relating to Dr. Merino, palm bracing her forehead. Had she missed something? It was worth a second look, a third; but she knew if the search beckoned greater attention to detail, she wouldn’t flinch. She’d review the information until her retinas short-circuited if it meant finding an answer. Her mission had once been singular–to understand–but Kenna craved retribution for what he’d done.
The thought of Dr. Merino’s lifeless corpse rotting in Hell did little to lift her spirits. She signed the cross, ashamed of the fantasy.
Three separate files, one for each girl, filled the display and she contemplated adding a fourth for Bella’s suicide. Nausea teased her throat as the words ‘pregnancy’ and ‘miscarriage’ stood out in Erin’s notes as if they were three-dimensional.
