Page 50 of Last Chorus

When the car turns onto the street, disappearing behind a hedge, I face the house.

The sun-warmed concrete soothes my bare, aching feet as I walk toward the front door. The air smells of freshly mowed grass; beneath it, the dry earthiness of the desert and a touch of alkaline from the smog layer.

I’m not surprised when the door opens before I reach it. Given the event yesterday, I knew Clay would be working from home. And given what happened in the limo and last night, I knew he’d have his eye on the exterior cameras.

He doesn’t say anything as he holds the door open for me to pass. I walk across the foyer into the living room I’ve never liked, with its dark walls, overpriced art, and empty glass shelves framing the television.

Not bothering to sit, I turn and lean on the back of one of the boxy leather couches.

“We need to talk.”

Clay stops a few feet away. Murky eyes take me in from messy hair to bare feet. There’s a flicker of disapproval, but that’s it.

There was a time I thought his ability to appear supernaturally calm was a defense mechanism leftover from an emotionally neglectful childhood. But that was me trying to humanize him. The skill is merely another weapon in his arsenal, one he exchanges as needed for anger, humor, disappointment, affection, et cetera.

I’m not sure hehasreal feelings.

Wilder’s face flashes in my mind. His mood-ring eyes with their shifting greens, golds, and browns. The way even his micro-expressions are easy for me to decipher. How even when he looks perfectly calm or happy, I’ve always been able to tell when he’s actually sad, or overstimulated, or annoyed?—

“I don’t have all day, Eva. Go ahead and talk.”

I inhale slowly, then meet Clay’s frosty stare. “I’m moving out.”

His features rearrange into a facade of exhaustion. “I was hoping for an apology, but I can’t say I’m surprised. You’re clearly hungover and emotional right now. I’ll set up a massage and an aromatherapy treatment.”

“I’m only here to pack a few things. I’ll arrange for a moving company to come this week.”

His aggravated groan sets my teeth on edge. “Jesus Christ, do we have to go through this again? Let’s just skip the part where you throw a fit and issue empty threats. If you want some space, fine. I’m due for a golfing trip to Palm Springs, anyway. I’ll leave tomorrow and come back Friday. How’s that sound?”

I almost laugh. What comes out instead is, “The night we ran into each other two years ago, did you really not remember me from the first time we met?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“We met at Glow’s first showcase.”

“Why are we talking about this again? I told you I vaguely recall being there but not meeting you.”

I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t remember much of that night, either. But I have the strangest memory—funny, really—of you telling me that you only dated women with fully developed frontal lobes. That if I was single at twenty-five, I should call you.”

Apprehension flickers in his eyes, along with a touch of what looks like fear. If I didn’t know better.

I’m no longer relieved, resolute, or even resigned. I’m a category five hurricane of disgust and rage. The impulse to scream at him is so powerful I have to bite my cheek. I want to expose him. Tell him I heard the recording, that I know what he did to Kendra. I want to make him crack, unravel, and admit it all.

But he won’t.

There will be no restitution. No consolation prize for my awakening. Only a truth so bitter it burns.

I let this happen to me.

Clay takes a step forward, his face a mask of concern, hands lifted like I’m a wild animal.

I feel like one.

“Eva,” he says in a placating tone. “We’ve been through this before. You’re not leaving me. Think about it. Think about everything I do for you. Who else is going to put up with your moods? I’m the only one who understands what you need. I take care of you, remember?”

A wave of lethargy hits me.

I feel myself sinking, water closing over my head. I’m powerless to fight it, incapable of swimming a second longer.

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