Page 12 of Little Deaths

Rafe had what casting directors liked to call “character”: a buzzword for those doomed to play the offbeat best friend or the brooding villain. His face, with its harsh angles and slightly cruel mouth, made it clear which he would be. He had a very straight nose and surprisingly long lashes, which softened the sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. It was a mobile face that could have been sensitive in the right light, but his flat affect and cold eyes robbed him of any warmth.

She found his Instagram, which looked . . . completely normal. It was called Castles in Darkness—a play on his last name, she guessed—and featured pictures of a home she assumed was his. He didn’t post many pictures of himself, it seemed, even though they had the highest engagement. There was one of him at a signing, and then another a few months back of him with a stack of autographed books. Scanning the comments, she couldn’t help but notice that a large number of them were from women, perhaps emboldened by the fact that he was good-looking and appeared to live alone.

The most recent post was a graphic that looked like it had been put together as part of some sort of PR package. It promised a special announcement to come “soon.” The post had gone up yesterday, which she found ominous.

She hoped the special announcement had nothing to do with her.

???????

Donni arrived at the Blue Palm early, which annoyed her. It felt like a portentous start to what she was sure would be a terrible evening.

She had worn a leather A-line skirt, along with a white blouse and a black and white-checked houndstooth blazer. Her stacked heels were clear plastic with a black bat print, and raised her from a stately 5’9” to an altogether imposing 6’1”. To round off the look, she had worn the Cartier Love bracelet Marco had given her (except now she wore the key around her own neck) and the reading glasses she was normally too vain to wear.

When she had examined herself in the mirror of her closet-turned-bedroom, she had decided that she looked appropriately sober. But now, she felt stupid.

She felt stupider when the maître d’ looked her over in a faintly incredulous way and said, “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes. Two for Donni Blake.”

He gave no indication that he recognized the name. “This way.”

Idiot, she chided herself, as she followed the younger man—probably fresh from college. Why had she thought for a second that he’d know who she was?

She fiddled with her phone, swiping through each of her social media accounts. Looking at the air-brushed, carefree woman she pretended to be made her feel like such a fraud.Actress, her bios said,devoted wife, entrepreneur.

They might as well all sayfucking liar.

The bell clanged over the door and the millennial waiter jumped to attend the new visitor. Donni glanced over in idle curiosity, then did another take.

It was him.

Rafe was wearing faded Levi’s and a t-shirt that was just tight enough to give definition to the body beneath. Over that was an aviator jacket lined with shearling, which he was already in the process of shrugging off. With his arms bare, she caught the glint of a watch that she happened to know cost more than her car.

Somebody’s doing well, she thought.

He was also carrying a bouquet of flowers. Tiger lilies and baby’s breath. She felt her heart plummet along with whatever hopes she had that this wasn’t exactly what this was as she gazed upon those colorful blooms.

“Donni,” he said, when she didn’t speak. His eyes were restless as they traveled over her, and when they finally met hers, his expression was a little wild. “You look . . .”

“Don’t.” She resisted the urge to clutch at her shirt collar, suddenly conscious of its missing button. She cleared her throat. “I hope those aren’t for me.”

That made one corner of his mouth turn up. “Of course they’re for you.” He set the flowers down carefully on the edge of the table before taking his own seat. “This place is rather out of the way, isn’t it? What’s the matter, Donni, didn’t feel like having me in the house?”

Now that he’d voiced it aloud, she realized it was true. The house already felt like it belonged to someone else. And with him in it, she would feel even more like a stranger. She looked down at her set of acrylics. “It might not be my house for much longer.”

“Ah yes, my father’s lawsuit.” He rested his chin on his hand. “That’s too bad.”

She shook her head at his callousness, thinking of the recall list that had been circulating around for the last couple of months. The wines pulled from shelves, unfit to drink.

“This isn’t exactly a pleasurable meeting, is it?” she said flatly.

His eyes flickered. “It could be.”

“No,” she said. “It can’t. One of the bottles from Marco’s winery was so filled with poison that a couple glasses of it could have killed someone. My husband—your father—died a murderer.” She met his eyes, feeling lost in those icy depths. “I don’t understand how he could have done it.”

“Profit.”

She looked at him sharply. “He had money.”

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