Page 10 of Heathens
“Ah, like The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
I nod. “It’s one of my favorite books.” I pause. “I got Jekyll a couple of years ago, and I liked the name, admired it even. I believe a person can be vastly different in moral character from one situation to the next. Supposedly, Jekyll means ‘I kill.’”
Salem’s lips quirk upwards ever so slightly.
I change the subject. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask, not moving.
“Water would be great, thank you,” he responds, placing his hands on the edge of the couch and flicking his piercing, blue eyes up to mine. His brows furrow. He takes my breath away.
I walk over to my kitchen and pour him a cup of water. My hands shake a bit as I walk over. He thanks me and takes a large sip. I try not to stare at the way it moves down his throat.
“So, do you really want to see my gallery or were you just saying that?” I mean for it to come out lighthearted, but instead, my voice takes on an expected edge.
“I really want to see your gallery,” he replies, leaning back and looking me in the eye. He runs his hands through his hair. “How long have you been a photographer?”
“It’s a recently acquired hobby,” I answer, crossing my arms. “I was... dealing with some things, and it was a good outlet.”
He frowns and leans forward, clasping his hands together in front of him. The gesture puts me at ease.Heputs me at ease. “Do you mean Evelyn?”
Her name on his lips sends a jolt through me. I stagger back a step. “So you know.” Not a question.
I’m not surprised. People still stop me in the street—asking me to recount that horrific night two years ago, as if I’ve moved on. As if I can move on that easily.
“I read over a hundred articles last week about a missing American woman named Evelyn Snow, and how her best friend, Lilith Damewood, escaped.”
“Seems you’ve done your research.” My voice is flat—tired. Maybe that’s why he’s really here. He wants a piece of the horror, the drama, just like everyone else.
“You weren’t hard to find on Facebook,” he says slowly, rubbing his mouth with his hand and looking down. “There were all kinds of alerts and messages on your page, people who’ve sighted her.”
I already knew that. Too bad they were false leads.
“You’re on Facebook?” I ask, the surprise evident in my voice.
He quirks his lips. Not a full smile. Just enough to show he’s amused. “We’re not medieval monks. I have an iPhone. I’ve dated women.”
“Are you a virgin?” I blurt, needing to know for some reason. Needing to change the subject.
“No,” he answers directly. My eyes widen. He continues, seeming to enjoy my surprise. “I’ve reconciled my past sins.” Nodding, I take a drag of my cigarette. His eyes trail my hand as I do. “Mind if I borrow a smoke?” he asks. I walk over and hand him my half-smoked one. He doesn’t say anything as he inhales deeply, relaxing back into the couch.
“A smoking priest who has sex,” I say, laughing.
“Hadsex,” he clarifies, watching me with satisfaction. I can feel his heat radiating to where I’m standing before him. There’s something so erotic about seeing him smoke, seeing him take over my apartment like this. “So, are we going to talk about it?”
I wrap my arms around myself. “There’s not much to talk about.”
He nods and takes another puff, raising his face and blowing the smoke upwards. His brows are knit together in determination. “She’s been missing for over two years,” he murmurs. “Hasn’t been seen since the evening of December 31st, 2014, where the two of you were watching the New Year’s Eve festivities on the crowded bank of the Seine. You gave a statement. You were all over the news that next month.” He pauses. “Her family thinks she’s dead.”
His words knife me in the gut. “She’snotdead,” I growl, enraged. “Her parents and I—we don’t speak anymore. They only claimed she’s dead to collect on the life insurance,” I mutter, heating when I think of how often they neglected her, how they never cared until it was too late, or until it became a question of money... how they milked her disappearance.
Everyone else thinks she ran away on purpose. Ran away from her shitty life back in Massachusetts. Ran away from her delinquent family. The police stopped looking for her. They all gave up on her. They either think she’s dead or that she’s lost forever.
Except me.
I know the truth.
“You’re still looking for her.” A statement, not a question.
I don’t answer. Instead, I walk to the window and fiddle with the lock. “It was my fault. That night—it was because of me that we were taken.” I turn to face him.
