“It’s cold in here,” he says. “Let’s go get some dinner, shall we?”
“Yes. Let’s do that.”
Then he kisses me. It’s gentle at first, and then it isn’t. “Would you want to go to London for a while?” I ask. “Maybe we could explore a little.”
“I might like that.”
“Good,” I murmur, standing up on my toes. Kiss him again.
“Hey,” he says, taking my hand. He’s looking over my shoulder. “There’s something going on at Suze’s place.”
A cold squeeze steals the air from my lungs as I follow his gaze and see flashing lights. Police lights or maybe ambulance. Emergency lights, red and blue. My heart squeezes so hard I’m afraid it’s going to explode. “Oh my God.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Suze
I’m soaked by the time I get back to the house. I lock the door behind me and disrobe in the foyer, shivering, then dash through the kitchen into the master bath, where I turn the shower on hot. It’s a glorious shower, with a rain head and all the bells and whistles. A window of glass brick allows a row of plants to grow in the humid light.
As I shampoo my hair, I wonder what to do about Phoebe. At first, her withholding the letter infuriated me, but I know it wasn’t the current-day Phoebe who did it. And yet, some of what I said was true—she’s riddled with little jealousies and her expectations are purely exhausting. We can’t keep having fights like this, fights that erupt over nothing and turn bitter within moments. How do we fix it? And if we can’t, how can I walk away?
When I’m dried and dressed in warm clothes, I pad into the kitchen, texting Joel. Will I see you tonight?
Nothing comes back immediately. Vaguely hungry, vaguely restless, I peer into the fridge. A fridge that has not been magically restocked by someone who knows my tastes and knows what I want in there. I’m going to have to figure out how to do my own shopping, or maybe I can find someone to help with some of these tasks. Do I really have to cook? Although I liked cooking during the pandemic, I’m not interested in cooking everyday meals. If I have someone to do the shopping and maybe make a few meals every week, I can probably do the rest.
I shake my head, laughing. So spoiled. But so what? I earned it, and it employs others and I’m not going to start feeling guilty just because I’m not living in the hothouse of Hollywood. I choose an apple—
And an arm grabs me around the neck, pulling me down.
My body responds before my mind registers what’s happening, and my mind only wants to roar a loud white-noise warning. Danger danger danger danger—
Instinctively, I swing my elbow backward, feeling the bone connect with ribs, and a grunt escapes, then a roar.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he growls, and swings my body down sideways, knocking me off-center so I go down hard on one knee. I bend into the fall, pulling his weight with me, and manage to slip out of his grip. My heart is racing, but my mind is suddenly crystal clear.
Stay aware. Stay alive.
I shove him and run for the door, but he grabs my hair and yanks me down.
My hair.
As I feel my body falling, weightless, about to crash, something in me breaks open. The girl I was, the one who had to suffer the brutal attacks of a man she couldn’t fight back, lands and leaps almost in one gesture, and instead of running away, I whirl to face him. Him, the man from the restaurant, shorter than me, pale and bleary eyed. He smells of sweat and gasoline and his fingernails are grimy.
I bend and hurtle forward, aiming to ram my shoulder into his midsection. Instead, my right shoulder connects with his chin, and I hear a crack before he grabs me and we fall, hard, on the wooden floor. I feel my shoulder slam the table in the foyer, but I scramble to keep him on the floor, trying to elude his hands. He suddenly uses a wrestling move, and before I know what happened, I’m pinned beneath him, his eyes mean and small. He starts to yank at my waistband, greed wetting his lips. “Big movie star,” he sneers. “Still a dumbass fucking girl.”
With a singular cry, I bring my hands up between his arms, flinging his sideways, and as he’s knocked off-balance I scramble diagonally, kicking him when he tries to grab my ankle. My body sends the table to the floor along with the candlestick lamp. Feeling his hands grasping my thighs, I grab the lamp and bring it down on his head with every bit of strength in my body. When he’s still grabbing my body, I swing it again, harder.
He goes still. I scramble from beneath him and he doesn’t move. Blood pours out from a gash across the top of his skull. It is possible he is dead.