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But he didn’t tie himself to the bed, her brain whispered.And he still thinks he loves you.
Love, she thought. What a fucking joke.
She filled her car at a gas station, where she bought a diet Coke and some curly fries that she was pretty sure nullified whatever calories the Coke negated.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She had a feeling she knew who it was and ignored it.
She didn’t want to see Christophe, particularly, but she was curious to see what he thought he was warning her against, and his distrust of Rafe sent little alarm bells ringing.
Still hungry and not wanting Christophe to buy her anything, she ordered a greasy burger and a glass of cheap white wine at Brouchard’s. “Hangover white,” she called wine like this, with a sweetness that was cloying and concentrated at the front of one’s skull.
Greg got her the frosty but dirty-looking glass as he put in her order, and when the doors of the kitchen swung open she found herself thinking of the fast-food dinner she’d had with Rafe before sucking him off with the taste of grease and red wine still sticking in her throat.
Suddenly, her hunger dulled and the emptiness in her stomach became slippery and nauseous. She pulled out her phone and sent Christophe a text that she was at the bar from the number he’d called her from. It went toreadalmost immediately but he didn’t respond.
There were several texts from Rafe.Tell me where you’re going. I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are. Goddammit, Donni, answer your fucking phone.
Relax, she wrote back angrily.I’m meeting Christophe at Brouchard’s.
Why the HELL would you do that?He responded almost instantly.
Because he said he had something important to tell me.
She watched her text go toread. No response.
Greg brought over her burger, sweating with oil. She forced herself to smile and say, “Thanks, looks great.”
“Enjoy.” He paused, hovering. “Haven’t seen you around in a while, Donni.”
Several people looked over when he said her name, even though she knew they’d seen her come in. It was the curse of having an uncommon name. If you were a fuck-up, it was far better to be named Nancy or Jane. She pushed at her plate, looking down at her nails. TheScream-themed motif had seemed fun and whimsical when she’d gotten them, but now the blood drips on black felt morbid. She sighed and curled them into her palms.
“It’s been a while,” she said. “But I’ve been busy.”
“My condolences,” Greg said. “Your husband came in here a lot.”
“I know,” Donni said grimly.
Greg wiped at the counters, still lingering. “Your stepson was in here, too. Rafe.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. A few nights ago. With the Walters boy.”
Donni resisted the urge to look at her phone. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Left together, too. At least, your boy did. Christophe came back, but he looked rattled. Like fear of God had been put into him.”
Had Rafe threatened Christophe?
Warned him away?
(Don’t bring Rafe)
“There’s a lot of strange shit going on around here,” Donni said, trying to sound noncommittal. “I almost wonder if my husband’s sociopathy empowered other people’s dark impulses.”
Greg’s brows arched in surprise the way people’s often did whenever she said something that wasn’t vapid. “Maybe,” he allowed. “There’s also a full moon tonight. People always act strange whenever there’s a full moon.”
“I thought they debunked that.”
