Page 78 of Art of Sin

34false sacrament

I wakeup alone in the guest room, the door locked from the inside. Head pounding, I haul myself from the warm sheets into the cool, pre-dawn air, dressing swiftly in my clothes from yesterday.

Before leaving, I stand outside the studio door, my forehead to the wood. The music is soft in deference to me, and I can hear him muttering in French. Talking to his muse, perhaps. It makes me smile, albeit sadly, and sigh.

I don’t say goodbye.

I drive around for two hours, numb to the morning traffic, until I’m absolutely sure no one is following me. Finally, I park not too far from Crossroads and hop a public bus to South Central, getting off five blocks from my destination.

Despite a decade of distancing myself from the past, my old skin slipped on seamlessly. It might have been different if I were in work attire, but wearing baggy clothes and battered sneakers, with my hair in a careless knot and no makeup, no one gives me a second look as I slip down side streets and through alleys to the run-down building.

The stairwell smells like piss and mold, both easily ignored. Silent footsteps carry me to the third floor and down a dingy hallway lined with doors. Stopping at the last door on the right, I fish a key from my pocket and let myself inside.

The wood groans as it swings inward on old hinges. Stale air and the scent of moth balls wrinkle my nose. A flip of a switch turns on a flickering lightbulb, revealing a narrow hallway with yellowed linoleum and dirty, off-white walls. To my right is a small kitchen with an unplugged fridge and empty cabinets. The rest of the studio is shadowed, blinds closed and curtains drawn.

Once inside, I close the door and turn all six locks before sliding the chain home.

No one, absolutely no one,knows about this place. There’s no paper trail and the name on the lease is bogus—not that anyone cares in this part of L.A. All that matters is that I pay rent by the year, upfront and in cash. None of the other tenants have seen me, and the landlord was already half-blind eight years ago when I signed a fake name.

Even as a part of me hoped I’d never need this failsafe, the streetwise survivor in me believed otherwise, and prepared for the inevitability of my past catching up to me.

Moving into the dim living area, I find the single lamp and screw the bulb into place, then turn it on. Yellow light fills the space, empty but for a plastic folding chair, a large cooler, and two duffel bags.

In the larger bag, I find clothing in sealed plastic. There’s absolutely no logical reason to change my clothes, but I do anyway, needing the symbolic action of stepping outside my life. Five minutes later, I’m wearing tight black jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. Boots, a ponytail, and a baseball hat follow.

I check the contents of the smaller bag: a dark composite case housing a 9mm Smith and Wesson, two magazines, and several boxes of ammo. Also in the bag is a hunting knife, ski mask, and gloves.

Because you never fucking know.

There’s also a small, prepaid flip phone. I power it up and robotically enter a memorized number, then hesitate. My skin crawls. Sweat beads out on my neck and chest. There’s no guarantee the number will work; in fact, it shouldn’t. Maybe it won’t. I don’t know what I’d do then. I’m still not sure what I’m doing now.

I sit unceremoniously on the floor, phone clenched in my fingers and held to my forehead, and rock back and forth like the broken woman I am.

A few minutes pass. Then a few more.

I think about Nate. About Gideon. About lies and half-truths and sacrifice. I think about the life I might have had with a different mother and father. All the useless musings of someone staring into the abyss.

Slowly, methodically, I empty my mind of weakness. Attachment. There’s no use putting it off any longer.

Fuck it.

I make the call.

The line clicks open on the third ring.

Silence.

The hum of a fan in the background.

Breathing.

I’m ice inside—solid and still.

Then, “Hello, Deirdre.”

My voice comes hard and sharp. “What do you want?”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend? I’ve missed you.” A smile in the words, his sincerity ringing clear.

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