Page 4 of Little Death
Metal and glass.
Her phone.
Oh my fucking God, it’s her phone.
An agonized, ugly sound tears from my chest, and I wrap my fingers around it like someone in this empty room will steal it from me. Pulling it out, I can hardly see the screen because of the blur from moisture pooling in my eyes. Staring at it doesn’t make it disappear. I can’t believe it’s here, but I can feel its reassuring weight in my palm. I’d recognize its pale pink vegan leather case anywhere. Elizabeth had said she checked everywhere for the phone, but neither of us had used this hiding place in nearly a decade—since we were kids—so I’m not surprised she didn’t think of it. By the time I remembered, she wouldn’t talk about Mom at all, let alone consider looking for it with me.
It's dead, of course, but I try the power button anyway. As much as I want to dive into it, I know I’m pressing my luck each second I linger. Stowing it away in my purse and connecting it to the power bank, I recover the panel and replace the window seat. There’s a pleasant numbness suffusing my system now. Maybe I’m dissociating. It’s incredible after such a long time spent hyperaware of absolutely everything.
Phone retrieved, I force myself to turn my thoughts to how to get out of the party without drawing any further attention. Once I get to the stairs, I’ll ensure there isn’t anyone around, like I didn’t break into one of the rooms and steal something. I’m so close to finally having the answers I’m looking for, I can practically taste it.
Despite the urgency growing within me, I give the room one last prolonged study, remembering how much time I spent here with my mother. I think of her sitting with us in her lap in the window seat, reading Tuck Everlasting or The Bridge to Terabithia, and my nose stings. I’m so lost in the memories, I don’t recognize the sounds on the other side of the door until it’s almost too late.
There’s a scuffle and a scrape, and the doorknob turns.
CHAPTERTHREE
If someone were to find me here, I could put on an act. Pretend to be drunk. Say I got lost, but all it would take would be for them to remove my mask for people to ask questions. Fear of being found out propels me across the room and into a closet stuffed with more pool cues, linens, unlabeled boxes, and mostly empty shelves. I barely make it inside with the door closed behind me when someone flings the door to the room open so hard it crashes against the wall.
“Stop fighting,” says a deep, familiar voice I can’t place at first, followed by the thud of something heavy and solid against the floor. The boards beneath my spiked heels quake, and I back myself into the closet, but the shelves stop my movement with a rattle of protest, and I startle, my chest squeezing. There’s nowhere to go. “Close the door,” the voice orders.
Squeezing into myself is pointless, but I try to make my body as small as possible. Not that they know I’m listening to whatever confrontation is going on just a few feet away from me.
The door slams, yanking a yelp free I smother with my hand. My knees threaten to collapse beneath me, so I lock them in place and grip the shelf behind me with my free hand. A relentless drum beats in my ears, and I force myself to suck in humid breaths of air so I don’t pass out and give myself away.
“Now that we have some privacy,” the familiar voice continues, “do you want to tell me again what it is you’re demanding? Because I’m afraid I didn’t hear you clearly downstairs. So loud, you know?”
I should have left when I had the chance. If I hadn’t let nostalgia grip me by the throat, I could have been gone by now, safe in an Uber back to my house. Instead, I’m stuck in this closet, listening to whatever the hell this confrontation is, and close to wetting myself from fear. My phone buzzes in my clutch with Yasmine’s next 30-minute check-in text, but I don’t dare fish it out, afraid the light will somehow give away my presence.
The shadows of their bodies shift in the space underneath the door. I swallow back a whimper as the door rattles. If I had to guess, whoever is speaking just threw someone against it. My stomach sinks into my ass. Whatever is going on doesn’t feel benign.
“This is a misunderstanding,” says a second voice, sounding so close he must be the one pressed against the door. Pinned against the door? “C’mon. We can talk about this.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be any more talking. This isn’t the way we like to do business. We agreed upon a price, and unfortunately, renegotiations are unacceptable.”
“Fine—that’s f-fine. I accept our original terms. C’mon, O’Connor. Let’s be reasonable. You can’t do anything to me. I’m a cop. People will look for me if you touch one hair on my head. So let’s stop now before you do something you’ll regret.”
The expensive champagne from earlier roils in my stomach, and I’m momentarily concerned for my glittering Louboutins. He can’t mean O’Connor. I must have misheard. Not Aiden O’Connor. I try to become one with the shelves behind me, praying they’ll magically turn into a portal and I can escape to a beach somewhere. I’ve always wanted to go to the Maldives. But no matter how much I try, they don’t budge and allow me to disappear inside them.
For a second, I’m thrown back to when I’d been caught in his line of sight, and I must admit, I could very much see him as the type to terrify anyone, even a police officer.
Fucking fabulous.
I can only hope they’ll take this little meeting somewhere else.
“I’ve been very reasonable about our arrangement, Dufresne, until you tried to ask for more money for your services. Then threatened my well-being. Frankly, I don’t take kindly to some feckin’ arsehole trying to think they can play games with me. Especially not a dirty cop.”
Well, so much for that hope.
Dread sews a lead weight lining into my stomach. All I can do is keep quiet so I don’t have that terrible, menacing voice directed at me next.
“Stop wastin’ your time on this piece of shite. He’s not worth it.” I don’t recognize the third voice, but its callous disinterest in the goings-on tells me I need to stay as far away from whoever it is as possible. Only another monster could be bored by the threatening undertone in Aiden's voice.
I expect O'Connor to help the man he's insulting back to his feet. To smooth everything over and get back to the party. I don't fully understand what the guy—Dufresne—did to piss him off, and I don't want to be around to figure it out. The less I know of all of this, the better.
But I don't get to live in that dream world because in the next heartbeat, three things happen in rapid succession.
There's a click. Dufresne jolts and shouts, “No! Don’t! I’ll tell everyone—” but it's clipped off by a whoosh of air and a dull, wet-sounding thump.
