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Marco had seemed oddly at odds with Rafe for reasons Donni could never really understand. Perhaps because having a child made him feel old, much older than her. She was actually closer in age to Rafe than she was to Marco, which was disturbing. Possibly he felt the same way, too. She also wondered if the shame expanded to Rafe’s mother’s psychological problems, and the way the boy’s anger reflected his mother’s depression like a warped funhouse mirror.
Whatever the reason, it had been painfully easy to play upon that conflict when she’d asked Marco to send Rafe away ten years ago. Marco had only needed a bit of careful prompting before deciding that his eighteen-year-old son had worn out his welcome.
Maybe that had been a red flag, too.
Looking back, there were so many red flags that it looked like a colorguard parade. The whirlwind courtship filled with secrets, the marriage that ended up being a mistake.
This—this was also a mistake. She should tell Rafe she had changed her mind, that she didn’t need the money. That he and his dinner invitation could both go fuck themselves. She might even be able to savor the feeling for ten whole minutes before he crushed her in revenge.
She had nowhere to live and very little savings. If the lawyers went through with their threat to seize the house to cover the payouts to the prosecution, she would have nothing and not a single soul in town would lift a finger to help her.
Donni had seen the writing on the wall. It was written in the same bolded, serifed font as the letter that had been delivered by the process server who had helped overtax her husband’s already failing heart.
Testing laboratories have confirmed that the Sauternes-style wines from Nicastro Winery contain dangerously high levels of diethylene glycol. One bottle owned by the Prosecution was found to contain twenty-six grams per liter.
Her husband had bottled up poison and forced the whole town to drink it. And now, it appeared that she would be compelled to do the same.
???????
She made a reservation at a wine bar two and a half hours away. Far enough from Riachuelo that she hoped nobody would recognize her name or the scandal. She texted Rafe the details and he wrote back—I’ll be there.
A rather lackluster response from a man who had all but threatened her into making appearance, she thought. Or was this part of the game, too?
Donni knew she was capable of very stupid things but she did not consider herself a stupid woman. She told Angie where she was going and who she would be with (the son your husband kicked out?!) and then she did some light detective work, because if she was going to be forced to play the penitent stepmother, she needed to know more about her stepson and the man he had become.
She took her Honda down to the Y-Mart instead of Whole Foods because it also carried books, on the off chance that they had Rafe’s in stock. The whole store was decorated for Halloween with bats and colored garlands hanging from the ceiling. Just a few weeks ago, the theme had been back-to-school. In a few weeks more, the theme would be Christmas. Donni blinked and stopped an associate to ask for directions to the book aisle. “It’s just through there,” the employee said, pointing to a gap in the walls, with a sideways glance that suggested they recognized but couldn’t place her.
Donni had been seeing that look a lot lately. The tainted wine had been discussed at length on both Facebook and the local rag, and of course there were pictures. Several of the victims’ families had Go Fund Me’s. Donni quickly left before that slight look of recognition could progress into hatred or disgust.
(I know what you did)
Her quick turn had taken her into a craft aisle, which had also been crammed with Halloween offerings. One section was curiously empty.Trifolds and posterboard, she thought, staring at the denuded racks in puzzlement.Who would have thought those would be so popular?She shook her head and moved on.Books. That’s what I’m here for. Books.
Y-Mart had a surprising amount of books—two aisles of them, in fact. In the tiny mystery section, she found both of Rafe’s:IncubusandVoyeur. Despite the racy descriptions on the back, they appeared to be thrillers. The heroine was a retired cop-turned-PI who was looking into a serial killer that was targeting the kink community.
“Oh, those books aresogood.” The cashier at the register held one book aloft as she scanned it. “I read the first one on a plane and couldn’t put it down.”
“Great,” Donni said, trying to sound upbeat. “I can’t wait.”
“I have the second on hold at the library but there’s a two-week wait. Apparently the author was born right here in town!” The girl tilted her head, glancing at her. “Did you teach at Riachuelo High, by any chance? You look kind of familiar.”
“Uh, no,” Donni said quickly, grabbing for her bag. “I wasn’t. Bye!”
As she left, she wondered if she ought to be insulted.A teacher? Really?It left her feeling rueful, those bits of So-Cal snobbery that she kept having to quash. She’d had to forcibly break herself of the habit of asking, “Who do you know?” because people kept looking at her strangely.
She had left L.A. to escape one kind of scandal, only to end up embroiled in another. Neither was her fault, but that didn’t matter. She wondered how long it took for people to decide they no longer hated you. She was getting tired of running, tired of fighting. Her adrenaline still spiked when she thought about what she’d done.
What she’d been forced to do.
On her way to the car, she was plagued once more by the flash of light. She ground the palm of her hand into her eye and swore softly, even though it didn’t hurt.
Thankfully, the flashing didn’t return once she was in the car. She drove home in silence, bracing herself for it, wanting to be ready so she didn’t lose control.Maybe it’s psychosomatic, she thought, drumming her hands on the wheel nervously.It didn’t really start until after I discovered Marco’s—after I discovered Marco.
It had now been two whole days since her husband’s death.
Once the food was put away, she Googled Rafe. Something she probably hadn’t done for at least eight years. She’d stopped looking into him when the emails stopped.
Donni realized that she had still imagining him as a sullen young man for all these years when she saw the picture of his face and felt an electric jolt of surprise.
