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He moves to me, kneeling beside me. It feels strange to be laid out on the chair on my belly, completely exposed, leaking sex liquids with him kneeling at my side, his face right at my ass. But then his fingers are on me, spreading the wonderful warm salve all over my skin, and my eyes close. All I can do is melt into the cleanable velvet.
“As much as I enjoy seeing the lovely red marks my belt made on your skin, you’re far too beautiful to leave them.” His finger glides between my ass cheeks, rubbing the salve over my sorehole, instantly soothing my skin. The throbbing leaves my tight muscles healing like magic.
“What is that stuff?”
“Magic Bachman Balm. Twenty-five hundred euros a pot, and you must be family to buy one. You’re my first patient. How do you like it?”
“I love it,” I croon. I like it even better that I’m the only woman he’s used it with.
He wipes a fresh bead across the last welt. “All the wives talk about this stuff.”
“The wives?” A prick of a question tugs at my mind. “Are they nurses or something?”
“Nurses?” He belly laughs. “What makes you say that?”
“Why else would they all need this salve?” I ask.
He stands, wiping his hand on a fresh cloth. He puts the salve back where it came from. Then our eyes lock.
He says, “Same reason as you.”
Wait—what? ALL the wives do this kind of stuff as well? A million questions fill my mind. I pop up on an elbow, ready to interrogate him. “You can’t say something like that and not tell me more?—”
The ringing of a phone cuts off my words. The same sound that started this whole crazy sexcapade.
This time, it’s his phone that’s ringing. It must be three in the morning by now. Nothing good ever comes from a phone call in the dead of night.
CHAPTER 22
Haze
The phone callis from Gian. I leave her with a kiss on her brow, going to my room, ready to demand answers from him. Gian’s supposed to be my right-hand man. Years we’ve been together, and she shows up. She is here for one day with him, and he turns his back on me to help her.
Can I blame him? Her powers are strong.
Gian and I speak, and he begs forgiveness for giving her the phone, then fills me in on his disappearance. After we hang up, I hop in the shower, turning the heat to full blast. I lather my skin and hair with soap, scrubbing as I process.
So, those lines from the poem were hers.
But who stole them?
When she named everyone who lived in her house and could have been responsible, she left one person off the list.
Herself.
Leah says she’s not the guilty party. Supposedly, Grandpa can’t log in. Grandma? Doubtful she could create a dating profile, stalk me, catfish me, then lure me to the park to rob me.
Sounds like the work of a teenager.
Ophelia works at a fast-food chain in town, where the older regulars love the cheap American coffee. I’m sure she has retired regulars—ones whose trust she could earn and pay off by bumping into me at the park and taking my wallet.
Her glowing vocabulary, the carpentry class, and the essay show how hard she works at school. However, she lost the scholarship one semester before graduation and needed that money.
Ophelia can access her mom’s photos and information, so it would be easiest for her to create a fake account. But is she capable?
I rinse, dry, and dress, collapsing into bed. I lay there, arms folded under my head, staring at the ceiling. The door opens, a shred of light from the hall illuminating the carpet.
Showered and dressed in sweats, she climbs into my bed and curls into my arms. The feeling is so familiar that I almost think she must have slept here that first night, which I thought was a dream.