Page 22 of A Touch of Dark
But the doors close without me inside.
There’s no one there to witness my return to that lone table. Upon retrieving the sketch, I fold it carefully, tucking it against my palm.
Maybe I’ll throw it away.
Or maybe I’ll keep it for Simon.
No matter how many gifts he’s sent and no matter how many years he’s haunted me, he’s never seen this woman.
Iescape Damien’s lair only to reenter a neon jungle that doesn’t appear to have missed me any. Or so I think. I’m shocked to find a town car waiting patiently near the curb—the result of an overzealous driver? Or Damien himself? I don’t ask, though when I climb into the back seat, the clock on the dashboard proclaims it’s after midnight.
Then I remember. Panic racks my spine, though it could be pity. Or terror. Poor Simon. For the first time in twenty years, I’ve stood him up.
Worse than that: I’ve forgotten all about him…again.
Were I in my right mind, I would urge the driver to rush home, hoping to make amends with my deranged torturer before time ran out.
I’m too tired now. My eyelids flutter, weighed down by hours of tension. I’ve never felt so worn. So apathetic.
As the driver pulls before the Lariat on cue, I watch it loom above me in all its glory. “Never mind,” I hear myself say without reaching for the door. “I think I’ll stay at the Harrison tonight.”
It’s a less prestigious hotel on the other end of the city. One favored by the riff-raff, some might say. A place someone like me would rarely deign to stay at.
And the one place where Simon won’t look for me now.
* * *
Monday is a workday.There’s no sheltering from it beneath thin sheets or a worn duvet. Sluggish with dread, I drag myself from my suite at the Harrison and return to my apartment just as dawn kisses the horizon. I round the corner near my suite with my hands already outstretched, prepared to face my punishment.
Only to find my doormat empty.
My throat tightens, constricting what little oxygen I manage to breathe in. It’s a bad sign—the first of many. My final present of the year isn’t waiting for me on the kitchen counter beside my potted oleander. Neither is it on the glass coffee table in the living room.
Bitter apprehension suffocates the remaining air from my chest as I start toward my bedroom. It’s raining out. Icy drops speckle the windows, the view beyond them. The world below becomes a blurred kaleidoscope of motion and noise, like a merry-go-round on warp speed. My apartment, however, is frozen in time, and I can’t escape the insane feeling that everything, down to my white carpet, is watching me.
Waiting for something.
The door to my bedroom is cracked, just how I left it. However, the maid came while I was gone. She made my bed and tidied the closet, leaving her trademark card behind. No signs of Simon here.
Not even in the bathroom. Inside it, all I find are broken glass and dried blood.
I flinch as muffled notes of piano music begin to play. “Moonlight Sonata.” I follow the melody back into the living room and find my cell phone, clinging to the last cell of battery life. I cringe at the time I find flickering on the screen. Late. So late. My boss is the one calling, but I don’t answer.
If I shower now, I can make it to the office in less than twenty minutes. Wishful thinking, as it turns out. It takes more soap than usual to make me feel clean. Naked and dripping with moisture, I attempt my makeup.
First, a blood-red lip, like usual. Poreless foundation. Powder, powder.
Wrong. Lining my eyes with kohl doesn’t chase the redness in them away. Beads of liquid seep from behind them, ruining my attempts to create a fearless smoky eye. I try again. Again.
Damn it.
In the end, I settle for washing my face and slicking my hair into a bun. My outfit of choice is a black pantsuit that takes forever to button. I’m still fastening the last one as I hunt for my heels to the soundtrack of my incessant ringtone. Note to self: Lay off the Beethoven. I’ve never realized how fucking pretentious it sounds before.
Because I’m never late.
The grim thought chases me out onto the street, where I find my town car waiting as expected. However, rush hour traffic foils my timeline. I’m racing into my department forty minutes later to hushed gossip and startled expressions. Someone offers up a nervous hello as I rush into my office, but I don’t have the energy to return the greeting.
Focus.I shake my head to clear it and brace my hands over my lap. It’s Monday. A new day. One when Simon’s game is almost over and I’m free for 363 more until next year rolls around.
