Page 38 of Liars and Liaisons

Rain sprays the windows, blurring my view of the property. Somehow, the dark sky and thunder rolling in the distance make the entire mansion seem more isolated than normal.

“Is that legal?” Cora asks. “To just… take someone’s clothes?”

“I’m not sure he’s entirely concerned with legalities.”

A long, drawn-out pause.

I cringe, flipping onto my back and slapping my fingers to my forehead.

“What exactly are you doing there, Vi?” Suspicion grates in each word. “You aren’t the kind of person to disappear to the mountains with some notoriously grumpy, strange man.”

“I didn’t elope with him. It’s ajob. You remember those?”

She snorts. “I have a job, you bitch. Only I’d punch my boss if he pulled that kind of shit with me.”

A chill coasts through the air. I glance up above the bed, at the skylights and the vents beneath them. Goose bumps pop up along my arms, and I tuck one beneath my floral comforter.

“Noted. Next time he asks me to take off my clothes, I’ll just punch him in the face.”

More silence. I wonder if she’s there with Alistair, or Elena, or even that Lenny girl who comes over every Sunday for brunch and always has paint in her hair, like she’s been rolling around in it. If I strain hard enough, I can almost hear them talking about me, judging me, though Cora doesn’t really have room to talk.

I start to remind her about her past with Alistair when a sudden, booming noise splinters the air around me. My gaze swivels toward the closet door, where those sounds normally generate this time of night. Inhaling slowly, I roll my shoulders and ignore the dread creeping up my spine; if there are ghosts in this house, they’ll have to try harder to get me to come find them.

I’ve seen enough horror films to know toneversearch for them.

After a few beats of silence, where my heart raps like a tin can against my ribs, nothing else happens. No more noise or footsteps or the odd, almost-whimsical moaning I can hear if I stay up late enough some nights.

I open my mouth, and music erupts downstairs; heavy bass notes seep through the floor, the melodic thumping causing the bed to knock against the wall. Suddenly, free thought is no longer an option.

“Jesus Christ, where are you living? Grand Central Station?”

Shoving back my covers, I make a face in the near dark. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s loud. Train stations are loud. I don’t know. Just answer the question.”

“It isn’t usually like this,” I mutter, sliding my feet into a pair of fuzzy yellow slippers. I snatch my black silk robe from the chaise lounge and shrug into it, ignoring the gaping hole in one armpit.

Grayson said I couldn’t go to his parties, but he didn’t say what to do if the party came to me. I’m counting this as that.

“I’ll ask again. Where did you move to?”

“A frat house.”

“Funny. I’ll be sure to tell your mom that next time she calls since, apparently, you’re not answering the phone anymore.”

Wincing, I pull the device back and scan the screen. Three missed calls from my mother today alone sit in bold red lettering, and remorse floods my nervous system again. Our chat schedule is multiple times a week but completely erratic, because of her work schedule. This is probably the longest we’ve gone without talking, and it’s due in part to the fact that my father’s been butting in a lot, asking for more and more money.

She doesn’t know he calls me. Thinks that the only times we speak are when she makes him interrupt our conversations, and I wish with all my being that were true.

I wish part of the reason I couldn’t sleep at night wasn’t because I never know when he’ll ring, begging me for money. Most times, he’s alone when he does, just coming off some weekend bender where he’s blown through the week’s paycheck on slot machines or dog races.

Other times, he’s not alone at all. And he’s not calling because he wants to chat or even wants to ask, but because someone’s standing there with a gun to his head, demanding payment.

I hadn’t heard from him until I arrived in the Arcadian Woods, when I sent the first check Grayson gave me. But his gambling addiction has worsened in recent years, and the mountain of debt he’s erected around himself has become insurmountable.

Hence the exorbitant amounts I’ve asked to be paid.

I sent them via snail mail, slipping the envelopes to Willow when she went to town.

---