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Thesoundofa gunshot clings to my body like a nervous aura as I watch Matt thump the top of my ancient television set with his fist. Again. Seems like third time’s a charm, though, because the grainy picture comes into focus, and the musical opener to Pitch Perfect crackles through the speakers.
He plonks beside me on the sofa and glares at my profile. I cram a fistful of popcorn into my mouth to muffle my sigh. Here it comes.
“How many bathrooms do they have?”
“I don’t know, Matt. I only peed in one.”
“Yeah, but if you had to hazard a guess?”
My eyes roll over the cracks in my ceiling as Matt starts tallying the potential powder rooms, ensuites, and shower rooms that’d come with a ten-bedroom home. He’s talking about Angelo and Rory’s mansion, of course. Hasn’t stopped asking about it since I told him I spent the evening there, playing blackjack, eating candy, and watching Romy and Michelle with Rory. At least bathrooms are a safer topic of conversation than the reason I was there in the first place: because I’d just heard a man hit the ground like a sack of potatoes after being shot, and I was in no fit state to finish my shift.
Matt is like a Golden Retriever, all shaggy blond hair and happy smiles. I don’t want to dull his wagging tail with negative talking points, like murders and the fact Anna doesn’t even remember his name, let alone want to date him.
Did you see any of the cars in the garage?
Do they have one of those fancy hot water taps?
What about a panic room? They must have a panic room.
Matt’s questions grow fewer and farther in between, until I steal a glance at him and realize he’s fast asleep, the bowl of popcorn balancing precariously on his lap.
With a restless buzz in my blood, I watch the bright lights flicker from the television and illuminate the walls of the dark room until the credits roll.
It’s nearing one a.m. when I switch the television off, and, despite the rock music vibrating the wall behind me, it’s eerily quiet. Too quiet for a manic mind.
Knew it was you.
Bang.
Knew it was you.
Bang.
The afternoon’s events play on repeat in my brain, and each time the gunshot rattles my insides, I grow more and more tense. That man knew who I was, and although he’s now in a body bag somewhere, I have an awful feeling my secret didn’t die with him.
Martin O’Hare could be on the way to the Coast right now.
Glaring at the wall, I run the four-leaf clover pendant up and down its chain, but it does little to calm my nerves. I can’t tell if I’m suddenly the unluckiest girl in the world, because my past caught up with me in the third quietest town in the United States, or the luckiest, because Raphael shot Martin’s brother dead for an unrelated reason.
Regardless, I should run. Grab all the money sitting in the top drawer of my dresser and cross the border into Canada. I came back to the Coast to escape my sins, but I’m starting to think all I’ve done is demote myself to a lower circle of hell.
As I close my eyes, the ghost of Raphael’s soothing words against my ear and his hot hand against my stomach sweep a chill through me.
The worst part? I think I like it down here.
Orange light illuminates behind my eyelids, and I pop them open in confusion. A few seconds pass before the living room lights up again with two flashes in quick succession.
What the fuck?
Holding my breath, I slip off the sofa and peek out the window. A familiar G-Wagon is haphazardly parked on the other side of the street, its headlights pointing at my window. The moment I pull back the curtain, they flash again.
Oh, hell no. What is Raphael doing here?
My heart is beating faster as I step back from the window. There’s no way I’m getting in that man’s car, despite the deep, dark urge to feel his hands on my body again. He just killed a manover losing a blackjack game. Driving off with him into the night would be in the top three dumbest things I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot of dumb things.
My cell phone buzzes on the coffee table, making me jump. It’s a message from an unknown number.
Ten.
