Page 54 of A Taste like Sin
agreed to do so.”
“W-What? But I—”
“I’ll see you later tonight,” he says, but this time, it sounds less reassuring. More like a dare. Or a
threat.
“I suppose you’ll pay for my things to be brought here?” I inquire, placing my hands on my hips. “I
mean, your clothes are lovely, but I would prefer my own. If I’m to stay here for any period of time, at
least.”
There. Ialmostsound confident, but if he’s caught off guard, his posture doesn’t reveal it.
His back is to me as he continues his slow, lazy pace to the door—but his laugh resonates in my belly.
“Of course. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
“And,” I add, waiting until he pauses near the entrance to the foyer, “no listening devices. If I want
you to hear me, you’ll hear me. If not, you accept that.” The seriousness in my tone negates the playful
nonchalance I wish to convey. But it’s like he said: He wants me to trust him.
And I can’t if he treats me like an enemy one second and a plaything the next.
“I mean that,” I insist as seconds pass without a response. “Please.”
“As you wish.Adios.” The door opens and his footsteps drift into the hall. “We will have dinner
tonight,” he adds before leaving entirely. “I’m afraid pizza, however, will not be on the menu.”
In a telling display of leverage, he doesn’t give me the chance to refuse before the door closes after
him.
Touché.
Alone, I hunch into myself. I’m shaking, twisting that goddamn journal over and over until I finally
gather up the nerve to open it. The first entry is dated over four years ago. In surprisingly neat script,
Lynn McKelvy recorded her day-to-day thoughts. She had a boyfriend named Tim. A sister named
Sarah. Wonderful, attentive parents.
And…she hated her birthday. Dreaded it in fact. That single looming date dominates nearly every
passage. In the same sentence where she bemoaned boring chores or a shitty day at work, she
prefaced it with a single foreboding statement:It’s a month until my birthday. A week. A day.
Until the date finally came and went. Afterward, the entries become sparser. Less coherent. The last
scribbled statements chill me to my core,
It didn’t happen.No card. No present. He didn’t come.
