Page 2 of Interior Design for Demons
“Remember what you told me about your dad, Grace?” Eve’s black-lined eyes narrow. “You said he was a zookeeper.”
“Um—uh huh.” It’s my go-to lie when anyone asks what my dad did for a living.
“Yeah, well...that’s a load of shit.” She flips the laptop around to show me the article she’s reading.
It’s about my dad. How he was involved in a human trafficking ring for years. He was on the fringes of the operation, but still—I can understand why Eve and her girlfriend are looking at me with a kind of fascinated horror mixed with betrayal.
I’ve seen this article before. It uses Dad as an example of someone who got out of jail way too early, thanks to the flawed American justice system.
I wasn’t around him much after he got out; my foster parents wouldn’t allow it. But my dad sent me emails. He told me he never personally touched the girls, that he felt horrible for his part in the deals. Unable to get a job because of his record, he spent the last several years of his life writing thrillers under a pen name. They were so gritty and lurid that they became extremely popular; his online audience ate them up as fast as he could write them. In an email, he told me he donated every bit of the proceeds to anti-trafficking organizations and rescue coalitions. I guess I believe him, because he had nothing to leave me in his will, and when I went to his place after he died, it was nearly bare. Just a bed, a chair, a computer, and a few basics. He lived on next to nothing so he could try to help women like the ones he hurt.
But Eve and her girlfriend don’t know about the last part of his life, the effort at redemption. All they can see on that laptop screen is the horrifying truth that he helped to wreck the lives of hundreds of women and girls.
“A zookeeper? Really?” Eve bites out the words. “Is that your idea of a joke?”
Eve doesn’t believe that I wasn’t trying to make a sick joke out of the sex trafficking thing. She doesn’t understand that from the time I was four, I thought zookeepers had the coolest jobs. I told everyone who would listen that I was going to be a zookeeper, and that my parents were both zookeepers. Maybe it helped me cope with the fact that Mom was dead and Dad was in jail.
I kept telling everyone that lie for years, until it became automatic. I never thought about how it would sound if someone discovered the truth.
Stupid of me.
I tried to explain, but Eve was brimming with righteous anger and wouldn’t listen. So I just left. I walked out without my bag, my wallet, my anything. And now I’m wandering along the sidewalk under ponderous oaks whose leaves rasp softly in the night breeze. I avoid the golden circles of light from the lamp posts, sticking to the shadows instead. The shadows are dark as my past, dark as my thoughts. They embrace me when no one else will.
When the sidewalk dead-ends into the street that runs down to the Thornhill Building, I turn right and slink along the curb. It’s quiet in this part of campus in the evenings. All the gathering places for students are on the other side of campus.
The pavement crackles under tires, and a car glides up beside me. The right front window rolls down, and the driver leans across the passenger seat. “Hey there.”
I peer into the gloomy car. “Rath?”
His white smile flashes at me. “Yeah. You heading somewhere? I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m not really heading anywhere. Just walking.”
“Ah.” He continues inching the car along, keeping pace with me. “Would you like to get a coffee? Or tea? Pastry?” He chuckles self-consciously, like he’s nervous about talking to me. It’s so damn charming.
I can hardly believe that Cologne God actually wants to go out with me. Is that even okay? He’s a teacher’s assistant, not a professor, but still. I can’t afford any more mistakes or gossip. And I’m such a mess emotionally right now that I’m liable to dissolve in a torrent of tears and snot if he so much as pats my shoulder kindly.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell him with an apologetic smile.
I expect him to nod, maybe give me his number, and then roll on.
But his face shifts, all its openness and bashfulness disappearing. His features harden, and suddenly I can see the amber rings around his pupilsveryclearly. They’re practically glowing.
“Yeah, I don’t have time for this,” he says. “Get in the car, Grace.”
I back up, away from the curb, onto the lawn. “What the—”
“Hell?” He smiles, and his teeth look much sharper than they did a moment ago. “Indeed. Get in now and I promise I won’t harm you. I’m here to take you to your father.”
“What?” The word breaks from me in a half-sob. “My father is dead.”
“He needs you, Grace. He needs you right now. Hurry.” The passenger door opens, but I didn’t see him lean over to open it. Is there such a thing as car doors that spring open by themselves? Maybe some new feature I haven’t heard about?
My dad. This guy wants to take me to Dad. It’s a trick, of course, but why?
Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not about to be toted off to some sicko’s dungeon.
“Pervert,” I hiss at him, and then I run.
