Page 22 of Deal with the Devil
Peering up at me is the devil mask, its cold and furious expression stitched onto the leather. Its stare is almost taunting at a moment like this, when I’m so lost and thrown by its sudden appearance.
Normally, I’m calculated. I’m careful.
When I bring out Il Diavolo, it’s with discretion. He comes out, then he’s put away once no longer needed.
If I was conducting business last night, I would’ve made sure to put him back where he belongs. Stowed away in a drawer or in a closet or tucked at the bottom of my fucking suitcase. It’s not like me to leave him…lying around.
I snatch the mask off the bed and storm into the hotel suite’s large walk-in closet. He gets dropped inside my suitcase before I zip it back up and then move into the bathroom, flicking on the light.
My reflection is as troubling as everything else I’ve come across this morning.
First it was waking up so late. Then it was the mysterious glasses of wine. Then the blood on my hands and the devil mask.
Now it’s my reflection staring back at me, showing several severe scratch marks along my neck and jaw.
Defensive wounds. Almost as if whoever made them was… fighting back against me.
Slow dread rolls through me. I turn away from the mirror as dark thoughts fill my head at what possibly could’ve happened last night.
“There’s no way,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s not possible. I wouldn’t… I’d never…”
I go for my phone, picking it up and dialing Portia’s number.
“Portia,” I say once the line rings several times over and then sends me to voicemail. “Portia, pick up the phone. It’s Rafael, calling to make sure you’re alright. I… I…” My gaze falls to the blood on my hands, my heartbeat doubling in my chest. “Call me back. I just need to know you’re okay. That you got home safe last night.”
I call her two more times just to make sure she won’t answer. Then I fire off some texts.
Call me.
It’s important.
We need to talk about what happened last night.
But Portia never responds. She doesn’t return my calls and doesn’t answer my texts. I resort to the numerous means I have to monitor her, bringing up the GPS tracking app on my phone only to find there’s no location detected.
“What the fuck?” I say, staring at the screen. “How’s that fucking possible? No location? What do you mean no location?!”
My mind is reeling. It feels like I’m going crazy.
I’m in some sort of hellish nightmare where nothing’s as it should be.
Normally composed and put together, it’s a form of torture I’ve rarely experienced. I don’t know whether to rage and come undone or keep calm and be methodical.
I resort to bringing up the apps for the security cameras. The ones I’ve had placed inside her apartment that I only look at a few times a week for privacy reasons, but those don’t assuage me like I hoped either.
Portia’s not home. The place is empty and silent.
Untouched.
It’s as if she never returned home last night as far as I can tell.
Real, genuine dread settles deep inside me. I resort to calling Joe at the news station. It’s a Friday. It’s possible Portia went into work…
“Germanotta,” Joe says upon answering his desk phone.
“Where’s Portia?” I ask without preamble, my tone curt. “Did she show up for work today? I need to speak with her. It’s urgent.”
“Didn’t you hear?” he asks. “She called in sick yesterday. Apparently, she had the flu. I haven’t heard from her today, but assumed she wasn’t over it?—”
