Page 15 of Heathens
Present
I survived. Above all else, I survived. I look the same, talk the same, laugh the same. But something is different. Something changed inside of me that day. My best friend was taken. In exchange, a part of my soul died, charred and crumbled onto the metal floor of the van. I would never forget the feeling of walking into that empty warehouse and realizing I was too late. She was gone.
Just...gone.
It did something to me.
It tore something vital from me.
But it also gave me something too. Something dark.
An ember began smolderingthat day, and that fire for revenge will probably never burn out.
* * *
“Why are religious paintings so erotic?” I ask Benedict, pulling my cardigan tighter as we meander through one of the expansive hallways in the Louvre. Surprisingly, the setting was his idea.
He snorts. “They’re not erotic.” Looking at me sideways, he shakes his head. “Not to a normal person, anyway.”
I shrug, swallowing the spiteful response I have for him:I’m not normal, you prick. “So, you said you grew up in Paris?”
He nods and walks ahead of me, paying particular attention to one of the triptychs across from us. “In the surrounding area, yeah.”
I’m losing him. He finds me too eccentric, too odd, and I can’t let him get away. Not yet. I form my lips into a small pout and toss my long hair over my right shoulder. He notices.
“That must’ve been amazing, having the best city in the world at your fingertips.”
He gives me a mischievous smile, and I return it, letting him think I’m just a pretty girl living in Paris on her parents’ dime; trying to hide the shadow that lurks behind my teeth like a veil, waiting to spill out like black blood. Just another dumb girl abroad, fucking whichever Frenchman gives her the time of day.
“It was pretty cool. When did you move here?”
I don’t let the smile drip off of my face as I tell him the truth. “My friend and I moved here two and a half years ago,” I say quietly, forming a small, wounded frown. “She passed away.”
His eyebrows fly up.
Please don’t let him recognize me.
Please don’t let him ask too many questions.
I don’t suspect that he knows who I am, or how I’m connected to him, but I don’t want to make it too obvious. This will only work if he doesn’t know until it’s too late.
“That sucks. How did she die?”
“Car accident,” I answer without hesitating.
Liar, liar, your halo’s on fire.
The old rhyme was popular at the Catholic school I attended all twelve years of school.
He just shakes his head and crosses his arms. I change the subject before he has the chance to put two and two together. Our tiny, upper-middle-class, New England hometown had gotten more press than it had in three-hundred years when Evelyn disappeared. “So, do your parents still live in the area?” I make my voice just a little bit strained and clear my throat as if talking about my past still affects me. As if I need to change the subject so I don’t have to wipe a delicate tear off of my cheek or weep into his strong shoulder.
It does affect me, but not in the way that he thinks.
“My mother died ten years ago,” he says, running his hand through his thick, black hair. “We were really close.”Good. I hope you suffer her loss forever, you bastard.
“And your father?” I pray I don’t sound too eager for the information.
“Was abusive,” he finishes slowly, crinkling his forehead and looking at me with wide, coffee-colored eyes. For a second, I feel sorry for him. For a second, I pity him. I didn’t expect him to be so honest. My resolve wavers—just a tiny bit.
