Page 48 of Haven't Killed in Years
“Holy shit,” he exhaled, with his mouth still full of my bottom lip. He flung me away, back against the headboard, and I scrambled to cover myself with my shirt.
He knew. Of course he knew. Why hadn’t I considered that maybe he knew? It was never something I worried about. I’d always had an easy explanation for the Brians: a cool form of tribal design,an alternative to traditional tattoos that I had gotten during a year abroad that I’d never actually been on.
He reached over and took hold of my shirt, snatching it away. He zoomed in on the side of my rib cage. He was gentle as he ran two of his fingers over my scars, the small raisedX’s from my father that ran down my side. Once he was convinced by what he was seeing, he returned his eyes to mine, refusing to blink. “Gwen…?”
I said nothing. I just sat there, where I’d retreated against the headboard, waiting for him to make the accusation.
“These are the demon crosses,” he informed me, like I didn’t know what was on my own body—as ifdemon crosseswas a term from a medical journal and not something dumb my father made up. “You…you’re Marin?” he said.
I covered my face with my hands, rubbing them over my eyes, begging my brain to sober up. I lowered my hands back to my lap so I could see him.
He was looking at me differently now. At first it stung, but then it clicked. He hadn’t known. Unless he was the greatest actor to ever live, he was genuinely shook. Dominic had had no idea I was her; he was not the one out to get me. I felt ten pounds lighter. It was relief.
He was not feeling that sort of way about it though. “Abel told me he marked Marin…you. He said it’s what saved you.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Did you kill those people?” he had the balls to ask as he inched away.
“No, you’re kind of off base with your theory.”
“Kind of?!” he shouted.
I reached for his hand—Look, a nice touch—but he jerked it away.
“You don’t have to be an asshole,” I said. “Do you want to know what’s going on or not?”
“Yeah, I want to know what’s going on.” He got up from the bed and stomped over to a chair across the room, a ridiculous relocation.
I swung my feet off the bed and put my shirt back on. “It’s not me, okay? I have nothing to do with any of this, but whoever does has it out for me. It started with messages and now she’s getting into Porter’s head, I think, to get to me.”
“She?”
“A woman approached Porter and told him she was Marin Haggerty.”
“What?” He tugged at his hair. “This is getting too crazy. I think we have to go to the police.”
“Oh, c’mon, Dominic, what happened? I thought you were into this stuff—it gets you off. And now, all of a sudden, you can’t handle it?”
“I wanted to write a book, not go to prison. Or die. Or wherever this is headed. You were supposed to be on my side and it turns out you’re in on it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I said. “I haven’t done anything. I was just living my life, not bothering anyone.”
“Don’t act like you’re some victim,” he hissed. “You’ve been lying and manipulating me this whole time.”
“You’re the one getting your rocks off from people’s real tragedies. I was a kid. Elyse was a kid. We’re not here for your entertainment.”
“I’m sorry.” He sighed. “If I knew you wereyou, I wouldn’t have involved you, not like this anyway.”
“It’s fine.” I stood up and moved to the edge of his bed, closer to the asinine chair he had moved to. “I need you to trust me. I need to figure this out on my own—no cops. Not right now.”
He left the chair and went to the other bed, ping-ponging around to avoid me. He lay down, probably too fast, because he grabbed forhis head. “Who do you think it is?” The vitriol had left his words. His eyes were heavy and the alcohol was rapidly gaining ground on the adrenaline.
“I have no idea,” I said.
The pauses were growing between the back-and-forth. I didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the mental exhaustion, or what he could sense from my sincerity, but he was backing down.
“Are you all right?” I asked, not daring to try to move closer again.
