I think of all the social gatherings I attended with Noah and Jack and how I’d sometimes glance up to see Jack watching Noah, his face twisted in disgust like he’d just walked in on him doing something terrible instead of winding an arm around my waist or pressing a kiss to my lips, and how Jack would catch me looking and smile his brilliant white smile and the moment that came before would dissolve.
‘You were so wrapped up in that piece of shit,’ he growls. ‘Everything was about him.’
A mirthless laugh breaks from me. ‘What – because it should’ve been about you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m not that stupid; if you really believed Noah was having an affair, you’d have wasted no time in telling me.’
‘Why spill his dirty little secret and risk your weakness – risk you taking him back – when I could just get rid of him altogether?’
The silence roars loudly between us. There’s an amused little twist to his lips. He’s enjoying this, the theatrics, the drama. Enjoying watching me try and fail to keep up. ‘What do you mean?’ I blink up at him as he consumes the space between us.
‘You say I won’t get away with this, keeping you here, but I’ve already gotten away with so much.’ He wraps a hand around my throat and forces my chin up. Pressing me firmly against the wall, he brings his mouth a whisper away from mine. ‘There are two kinds of love, Elodie: the kind you’d die for and the kind you’d kill for.’
The hit and run.
My breath evaporates in my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t. ‘You murdered him.’
‘He was making you miserable and I knew I could make you happy. I had to put an end to it – you’d never have done it yourself.’
It’s too much. I can’t believe what he is telling me. I don’t want to believe it. ‘Stop. Just stop.’
‘No.’ His hand around my throat squeezes. ‘You need to hear this, Elodie, because I want you to love every dark corner of me just as I love every dark corner of you. I need you to know how far I’ll go for us.’ He brushes his thumb over my lips. I close my eyes against the tears. Jack lets me go.
‘He’s dead because of you.’ The truth burns like acid on my skin and I want to scream, I want to—
Before I can register what I’m doing, my hand shoots out and the slap of flesh echoes around the room for longer than it should. My palm tingles and it’s so good, I do it again. I lift my hand for the third time, but he catches my wrist. We struggle. I scream at him, full of rage and betrayal. I swear fluently and violently as he forces me down onto the ground, flat on my back. He mounts me. I try to bite but I can’t, I try to kick him and claw at him, but I can’t. He locks my wrists in his hand; I can’t do anything with him pinning me down. I whine and whimper and scream. Jack’s free hand wraps around my throat again. He squeezes, not hard enough to cut off my air or even hurt – but it is a warning.
‘Don’t you ever hit me again,’ he growls.
I glare up at him. Then I am bucking again, trying to throw him off but he is immovable, too strong, too big, too broad. Writhing beneath him is turning him on. I stop, breathing hard.
‘Are you done?’ he asks.
‘Fuck you, fucking, fuck you.’
‘That’s it, let it all out.’
I cry. I hate myself and I cry. Jack waits as though I am a child throwing a tantrum. When he finally gets up, I stay down. I am too weak and too crushed by despair to stand. I lie in a broken, weeping heap as he makes his way up the stairs. ‘I’ll get your fucking cat.’ He opens the door. I do not move. ‘Piss me off again and I’ll kill it.’
And then he has left the house.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
63 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
I destroy it all. Everything Jack has given me to make this prison feel like home. I tear up the T-shirts, the calendar, the bed sheets. I tip over the chest of drawers. I flip the bedside table. I smash my fists into the mattress. I take the ready meals from the fridge and launch them at the walls. Then I lie on the hard ground among the rubble and scream until my throat is shredded and I am hiccupping.
If I’d never met Noah, he’d still be alive. I think of Florence in the weighted mournful silence of the funeral where she wore a darkly glittering dress of tragedy, sadness and loss, of which I am the unknowing seamstress. I weaved threads of pain into her life which cannot be unpicked.
I didn’t drive the car that hit Noah, but I may as well have done.