Page 40 of Souls and Sorrows

Furious warmth sears my cheeks as I think about what we just did in that parking garage. Not embarrassment exactly since I’m not unaccustomed to such trysts with virtual strangers.

But it was the first time I ever performed likethatfor someone.

And the first time I can ever remember enjoying it so much.

He barely touched me, barely even said anything, and yet the unspoken desire setting his eyes on fire nearly sent me over the edge on their own.

Picking the first door in the hall upstairs, I open and shut myself inside, luckily in what seems to be the correct bedroom. Versace luggage is piled on the white-and-gold furniture, and boxes line the floors.

Anxiety creeps over my skin in the form of goose bumps, and I start digging through the boxes, unsure of where they put things. The problem with letting other people move your stuff before you have time to organize it is, they don’t know how to categorize anything, and then you’re stuck sifting.

There’s a Dyson hair dryer with a dress that shouldneverbe folded. Thongs and glassware, an old patchwork quilt with recital trophies and ribbons.

Worst of all is a small box sitting on the tufted ottoman at the foot of the bed. I peel off its tape and tuck back the flaps, and a hard knot solidifies in the center of my throat, no longer allowing oxygen to pass.

A few pieces of jewelry are tucked away inside—Nonna’s heirloom engagement ring, a pearl necklace Papà got me in secret for my sixteenth birthday, and sapphire earrings I bought myself as a college graduation gift.

The bottom of the box is lined with crumpled pieces of paper though. Sheets that are smudged with red lipstick and black ink, cut into the shapes of butterflies.

My stomach drops, despair etching itself into the lining. These are the notes I kept hidden behind the toilet at Nonna’s, stuffed in a small metal lockbox with two capsules.

They aren’t love notes even though I used to think they were. They’re scribbled anecdotes of complete and utter hatred, and I don’t even have to pick one up to remember Mamma’s handwriting spilled across a page, reminding me that I would never ever amount to anything.

She gave me one every night before bed. A new insecurity, new criticism, new way to make me hate myself. Even the nicer ones always wound up sullied when she climbed under the sheets with me, telling me she needed to cleanse me of the evils of the world so, one day, I’d be worthy of our family name.

Bile rises in my throat, and I run my finger over the blue capsules, recalling how I took them from my brother-in-law’s house the summer Stella and I stayed with him and Elena. How I planned on finding Mamma and using them, but instead, here they sit, collecting dust.

Poison never would’ve been satisfying enough an end for her anyway.

It’s too casual, too close to a natural expiration. A nice way to watch her suffer over time, but she deserves much worse.

Though itcouldwork on Cash. It’s easy enough, and the likelihood of me being long gone by the time anyone found him is pretty high. Plus, I’m sure Kal could get rid of the body for me without any issues.

But then I’d have to face my sister. Sweet, docile Elena who believes violence belongs in the bedroom and nowhere else. I don’t want or need her to worry more than she already does.

As if worry somehow changes the outcome.

Cash walks into the bedroom without knocking, casting a bland expression around the room before finally coming to rest his attention on me. He smooths up the collar of his shirt, having changed from his tuxedo into a navy button-down, gray dress pants, and his glasses.

A black tie hangs limp around his neck, and I pinch one of the capsules between my fingers, trying to decide my stance on this man.

I’m attracted to him. There’s something about those wire-rimmed glasses and that impossibly sharp jaw that make my thighs clench wantonly.

But I also wouldn’t mind if Papà had somehow succeeded in poisoning him earlier. Wouldn’t mind actually taking a stab at it myself, which is why I didn’t bother explaining about what had really happened at the church.

Best to keep my cards close.

“This isn’t your room,” he says after a beat, leaving the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

I gesture at the piles of boxes. “Looks like my room.”

“It would be” —he pauses, pursing his lips as he folds his sleeves up, revealing the thick, corded veins prominent in his forearms— “untoward for a newly married couple to sleep separately, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “I think we’d be the only ones who would know.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot have that weighing on my conscience. I want to ensure that both of us are benefitting from this ordeal as much as we can.”

My brows lift at the wordbenefit, and he clears his throat, as if only now realizing he said it.

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