The only thing still clear to me from that point on was the bone-deep terror.
After the police interviewed me, they came to the conclusion that I was delusional, possibly on drugs. Demons hadn’t killed mortals in centuries. It wasn’t even possible, they were certain. Have you lost your mind, Rowan?
Eventually, they’d come up with a half-baked theory that the murder was probably drug-related. But that wasn’t Mom. She never did drugs.
At school, the rumors had gone wild. People who didn’t know a thing about Mom had said she was a prostitute, a drug addict. Some had said I’d killed her in a fit of rage—that I’d poured gasoline on her and lit a match.
When I found the real killer, I’d know what actually happened.
“Fuck,” I muttered. Then, louder. “I am not Mortana!”
A sigh sounded from the next cell. Was someone there?
“Hello?” I tried again, this time more quietly. I felt oddly relieved to have company. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
The only response was another sigh. Definitely someone there.
Hugging myself, I swallowed hard. “I’m not supposed to be here. I know, right, everyone probably says that, but I’m mortal. I don’t think demons are supposed to imprison mortals. Don’t suppose you know how to get out of here?”
No response.
“I guess you wouldn’t be here if you did. Have you ever heard of someone named Mortana?”
Water dripped into the puddle next to me.
I dropped my head into my hands, my body still buzzing with panic. “I’m not her. I’m not a demon, and I’m not two centuries old.”
Somehow, my new prison friend’s silence only made me want to tell him more. Because the Lord of Chaos was right. I did want to unburden myself, but not because of guilt. My secrets were weighing me down, stealing my breath, and I wanted to be free of them.
“Let me tell you something, prison mate,” I started. “I’m twenty-two. And I can’t die tomorrow. In fact, I refuse to die tomorrow. Do you want to know why? I’ve never even been in love. I had one boyfriend my freshman year of college. He was into comics and played the piano, and he was tall and cute. But he always told me I needed to exercise more, and I started to resent him, and when we finally had sex, it was…so boring. I remember reading the spines of the books on his shelves, waiting for it to end. I remember a mosquito biting my butt cheek. Then he broke up with me for a girl from his town, and that was at. That was my only relationship.”
My mind was racing. I’d never actually told anyone this before, and it felt good to get it out. And I didn’t actually give a fuck what this stranger thought, so he was the perfect person to unburden myself with.
This was freeing.
“I think we need to talk about Jack,” I went on. “You’re a good listener, you know that?”
I launched into a diatribe about Jack in high school, the “Home Run Rowan” nickname, how Jared Halverson had posted my confused texts on social media the night he stood me up. Then I rambled about every indiscretion, every embarrassing thing or terrible thing I’d ever done. The time I’d written a friend a bitchy email about my math teacher’s sweat stains and accidentally sent it to him. My weird snack of microwaved tortillas with sugar and butter. The time I’d thrown up repeatedly in a trash can in Harvard Square Station after too much tequila. The cab driver with mutton chops I tried to hit on in Cambridge. How I’d peed outside a Dunkin’ Donuts because they wouldn’t let me use the bathroom. How I’d never actually had an orgasm, and I wasn’t convinced they were real—the idea seemed like an elaborate hoax. I explained how I’d given up on men and started wearing granny panties from Rite Aid because what difference did it make?
For at least an hour, I unleashed every embarrassing or selfish thing I’d ever thought or done.
“…and can you explain to me why the one guy who seemed like he would actually be able to sexually satisfy me is also a demon, and also he kidnapped me and threw me in a prison? That’s how I know there’s no God. It’s too cruel. The sexiest person I’ve ever seen, the guy who’d make me want to wear lace underwear instead of the pharmacy stuff—he’s the Hannibal fucking Lecter of the supernatural world. Are you kidding me?”
Silence filled the cells, and I realized my eyes were growing heavy.
A man’s voice came from the next cell, hardly a whisper: “Are you done?”
I sighed, only now realizing that I’d pretty much run out of material. “Yeah, I think that covers my life pretty much,” I said, and dropped my head into my hands, exhausted.