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Maybe, with some therapy, I can forget this part of my life ever happened. I’ll find someone to give me a new identity, and I’ll start over somewhere. Anywhere.
I must let exhaustion overtake me because the next thing I know, I’m jerked awake by the jarring feeling of wheels connecting to a runway. I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance around to see everyone gathering their things. I unbuckle and stand as the plane taxis to a stop, waiting since I have nothing to collect.
Connor pauses a moment at the cockpit, murmuring to the pilot before descending the stairs, the rest of us following in a good little line. The warm breeze hits my skin, and a slight sheen of sweat breaks out along my body at the heavy material I have on. I haven’t cared until right now about what I’m wearing, but I need a shower and a change of clothes—and a lobotomy to forget everything that has happened in my life in the past few months.
I descend the stairs and halt Connor with a hand on his arm. He turns, the look in his eyes inscrutable as he waits for whatever it is I want to say.
“What are you doing with Ruby?” I ask.
His eyes soften briefly before hardening again. Maybe I imagined it.
He checks his watch before glancing back up. “I have someone coming to collect her. She will be taken care of.”
“I want to go with her,” I tell him. I don’t want to go back to his house. To all the familiarity and memories of my life now.
“You need rest. You’ll ride with me.”
I want to stomp my foot like a child, break down in tears. Protest. But that might be the exhaustion talking. The tic in his jaw lets me know that I’m not winning the argument, should I proceed with one.
“Will she be okay?” I ask.
He gives a curt nod. I don’t have any fight left in me. I trail after him, climbing in the car on autopilot and laying my head against the headrest, not moving until we pull up at his house.
I don’t remember walking inside or even getting to my room.
I’m in a zombie-like state, and I find a pill on my bedside table with a glass of water. I don’t even think about it. I pick it up and down it along with the liquid, and then I strip out of my clothes. The warmth of the shower massages my broken body, and after, the fluffy towel soothes. And as I climb between my silky sheets, naked, I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
* * *
When I wake,sunlight is streaming in through my window. I check the time and see I’ve slept for eighteen hours. No one bothered me. It’s late in the afternoon, and I hastily use the bathroom, brush the fuzz from my teeth, and dress before going in search of something to eat and drink.
As I walk past Connor’s office, I notice the door is cracked, and voices are coming from inside. I stop, looking in, and see the television is on. The voices I heard.
Connor is seated in one of the wingbacks, slumped, a glass of dark liquid encased in one hand as he watches the news. Then, I focus on what they are saying.
“Breaking news. There was a deadly altercation that happened at Dahlia’s two nights ago. The owner and proprietor of the gentleman’s club, Tracy Short, who goes by the name Dahlia, was found deceased, due to an apparent knife wound. Officers on the scene described it as ‘a grisly and grotesque murder, performed by monsters.’ A man inside and two men outside were found deceased, all with gunshot wounds. Their identities have not been released at this time.”
The scene goes from the outside of Dahlia’s with yellow caution tape surrounding it to another reporter talking about the occurrence. This happened the night I was taken. I was there for a short time, and this is what happened. I’ve tried to put it out of my mind, but now, seeing the building and hearing the recount of atrocities committed, it makes my knees buckle. I grab on to the doorframe for support, catching Connor’s attention. He doesn’t make a move, except to turn his head, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He’s drunk.
“Come in. Have a seat,” he says.
I glance into the hallway, hoping someone will save me from this. I stumble to the chair, sinking into it. He holds out his drink to me, and I shake my head. My tongue is swollen; it’s so dry.
“Drink some. You’ll feel better.”
I take the glass and hold it. He doesn’t make a comment about me not drinking it.
“Who were the three men killed at Dahlia’s?”
Connor rolls his head back toward the television, grabbing the remote and muting it. I don’t want to look at the scene anymore, so I stare down at the liquid in my hand, swirling it. The smoky smell of it reaches my nose, which I wrinkle.
“Lucas was one of them,” he says, and my heart drops. I don’t know any of them well, but he was part of Connor’s circle. “Arie isn’t taking it well.”
“How could she?” I murmur.
“It’s part of our life,” Connor says, looking at me again. He squints slightly. “Vincent and William were the other two.”
I remember them, the way they treated me, the way they treated Connor. I can’t say I’m sorry about their deaths.
