“It’s a she. Her name’s Kiyoko. And she’ll find you. Just stay inside the terminal. She’ll give you money and the keys to a car and your new apartment. You have my number if you need it.”
Theresa nods. She licks her lips, glances down the hallway, then looks back at me. Her eyes fierce, she whispers vehemently, “God bless you.”
Too late. The devil already did.
“Remember, you can never contact anyone you know again. Your life here is over. Theresa Davis and her daughter no longer exist.”
She nods, but I’m already turning away. I walk silently down the hallway, stop at the closed door, and remove my gloves from my briefcase.
Then I open the door and walk inside.
A sweating man in boxers is propped up on pillows in bed. He’s balding, shirtless, and overweight, eating potato chips from a small pile on his chest and smoking a cigarette. Empty beer cans litter the nightstand and floor next to him.
Not all abusers are such slobs. Like Dylan, most of them appear respectable. It’s one reason they get away with so much.
Good people don’t believe that evil can look pretty.
The man on the bed jerks upright and tries to hide his fear behind a snarl. “Who the fuck are you?”
I let him sit with that fear for a moment, just a small taste of the terror Theresa and her daughter have lived with for years. “A friend of your wife’s.”
I smile and close the door behind me.
Shay
The note is written in Cole’s handwriting. The words make sense, but the underlying message is confusing.
Baby,
If you wake up and I’m gone, don’t worry. I had to take care of some work. I’ll be back in a few hours.
I adore you,
Cole
Standing at the side of the bed wearing a white dress shirt of his that I found in his closet, I read the note over again. Uneasiness is a hungry sewer rat gnawing holes through my stomach.
Everything about this is strange. Him leaving me here alone, the “work” he had to take care of, that sign off.
Especially the sign off. He’s expert at turning the closing of a letter into mind fuckery.
So he adores me but doesn’t want to commit to me. He adores me but doesn’t answer my questions. He adores me but keeps me at arm’s length distance while dropping masterpieces of mystery such as, “Being with me isn’t safe.”
I look around the room, at all the expensive furnishings and the artwork and the elegant décor, and say into the silence, “This is bullshit.”
I want to ransack his closet, but I don’t. I want to rifle through his drawers, but I don’t. I want, badly, to find some evidence of whatever it is he’s hiding from me, but I decide to respect his privacy instead.
Barefoot, I head downstairs to the kitchen. The overhead lights blink on automatically, which is convenient but also weird. It makes me wonder if the house is operated by artificial intelligence, then I get creeped out that maybe a sentient computer is spying on me from behind the walls.
The contents of the massive stainless steel fridge are bizarre. Two dozen hard boiled eggs in a bowl, seven identical prepped containers of sliced steak and mashed sweet potatoes, and four glass jars of beige liquid that look like protein shakes are arranged separately in symmetrical rows on each shelf. The cheese and vegetable drawers are empty, as are both doors.
There are no condiments, no snacks, no desserts in the freezer.
The only thing in ample supply is cold air.
I open one of the protein shake jars and sniff, instantly regretting it. The contents smell like dirt and cabbage, which means it’s probably healthy. I replace it and grab one of the containers of steak and potatoes, then rummage around in drawers until I find a fork.
Standing up at the kitchen island, I eat cold steak and get more upset by the second.
He left me here alone.
He left me.
I’m in the middle of angrily chewing filet when Cole walks through the door.
Like a mortician, he’s dressed entirely in black. Suit, shirt, tie. The gray leather briefcase he’s holding has a strange dark smear across the top and side, along with a splatter pattern that looks like abstract art.
He sets the case on the counter beside the fridge, then turns to me, his expression blank.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
His energy is odd. He appears calm, but it’s like the calm that comes after a really hard workout when you’ve spent yourself physically, leaving your mind clear.
The knuckles of both his hands are black and blue.