Page 7

Vivienne

Marlene’s sudden imposing presence in Vivienne’s room raises hairs on her skin. The space quickly becomes too small, too hot, and suffocating.

She is standing at the doorway, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other hand braced lightly on the frame.

“I noticed you seem unusually off today during dinner,” she says, her voice casual and smooth. “Is there anything you might like to tell me?”

Vivienne stiffens, her hold on her stylus pen tightening.

She has no idea why in the two years her boyfriend has been coming and going, Isadora suddenly decided they should have dinner together.

But today, they did anyway. And it was as if an invisible hand was wrapped around Vivienne’s throat the entire time, sitting across from the man who sexually assaulted her, degraded her, made filth of her, silenced her.

She felt like throwing up every time he made faces at her when he thought Isadora wasn’t watching. And when his hand, marred with calluses, continued to sneak under the desk to rub at her thigh, she really felt like dying.

She didn’t have the gut to breathe a word. It would be her word against his. Isadora would never have believed her even if she actually saw what he was doing under the table.

“I’m waiting.” Isadora’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts.

Vivienne forces a swallow, shaking her head. “No.”

Isadora hums, taking a slow sip of her wine. “No?” She arches a challenging brow. “Not even about Josh?”

Josh? Who is Josh?

Then Vivienne’s eyes widen. She knows him. The boyfriend. She just never knew Josh was the name.

The air suddenly turns sharp, biting at her skin, her stomach twisting in nerves.

Isadora watches closely, full of patience. But her smile is worse than shouting, worse than rage. It’s clear to Vivienne that Isadora knows about her and her boyfriend. But how? Even if she noticed something a bit weird at the dinner table, that still isn’t enough to draw a conclusion, right?

Wait, does that mean she knew all along and finally had enough at the dinner table?

“Something happened between the two of you, didn’t it?” She tilts her head slightly, watching, waiting.

Vivienne’s pulse slams against her ribs. But she won’t dare deny it. Not when it’s so obvious that she knows. Lighting a fire to your ass and forcing you to confess your darkest secret is Isadora’s favorite thing to do when beating is not in the picture.

“He—he came onto me.” Vivienne forces the words out, recoiling, her voice barely above a whisper. But Isadora hears it anyway.

Isadora silently swirls her wine, her eyes fixed on the red liquid coating the glass, captivated by its movement.

“Did you let him?” she asks, still staring at her wine.

Vivienne’s breath hitches. Her mind screams at her. To say the right word. To thread with utmost caution.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I didn’t. I tried to stop him.”

With a deep breath, Isadora brings the glass to her mouth and takes another measured sip.

“I see,” she nods slowly.

And that is all. There is not a trace of disgust on her face, no anger, no question, and the one Vivienne fears the most— accusation.

There is no accusation.

Vivienne should be relieved by this. But something isn’t right. The calmness unnerves her.

Is Isadora planning to ignore it? Sweep it under the rug like it never happened?

Isadora remains rooted to the door, unmoving. Vivienne risks a glance at her. She is staring into her wineglass again, deep in thought.

Then, after a long, heavy pause, she speaks again. “Well, good night.”

And just like that, she turns and walks out, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of her perfume. But unease remains woven into Vivienne’s nerves.

That ended too quickly. Too smoothly. This isn’t right. Something is off.

The next morning, the smell of roasted coffee and burned toast lingers in the air as Vivienne pulls on her arm warmers, adjusting them over her wrist.

Right outside on the overdue-for-a-trim lawn, Kenji jams to an 80’s pop song in his car.

He has come to pick Vivienne up. One of her favorite authors is hosting a book signing across the city. She has never done one of these before—attend any event. But it is a Saturday. She can’t hang out with Kenji like she always does because he is going for soccer practice for the game coming up.

And she would rather not stay curled up at home wallowing in her misery, especially since she doesn’t have any artwork commissioned. So she decided to do something new.

She hopes it will be exciting, at least. She can’t wait to meet new people—even though she bet a thousand bucks that she wouldn’t make one friend before coming home. But she will see new faces. She is tired of seeing the same flavor of people at school every single day, anyway.

She grabs her tote bag, cross checking to make sure she hasn’t left the book she needed the author to sign, then slings it over her shoulder.

She picks her headphones, strapping it to both ears.

And yet, no music. She loves music, but most times, when she pulls on her headphones, it’s not to vibe to a nice song, but to pretend like she is in a different world.

So people won’t talk to her. It’s an old habit she got used to.

The slam of her wooden door resonates down the hall and she winces. It is an honest mistake. She will rather not let Isadora remember she is still at home on a Sunday.

She reaches the living room and can’t help halting. Someone left the television on.

Her brows pull together. The sight feels eerily weird. The TV in this house hardly gets turned on. Sometimes, Vivienne often forgets how very functional it still is, and not just a monument on display in a museum.

She should just walk past and be on her way. Kenji has waited for over ten minutes now, refusing to come inside because he hates Isadora and doesn’t want to risk a chance of bumping into her.

But the local news channel is flickering on the screen.

It is a murder case. Murder cases always intrigue her.

She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t have any plan of studying anything relating to solving murders.

But somehow, every newspaper tucked in the drawers of her room have murder cases printed boldly on the front page.

The one being reported right now is a homicide at an independent motel in Linux Lane. Linux Lane is a town about thirty minutes away from here.

“Reports showed the victim had been staying in this motel for the past two weeks. But earlier this morning, he was found dead in his bathroom. Authorities suspect a drug overdose.”

A picture suddenly flickers on the screen. Although pixelated, it is unmistakably clear.

Vivienne gasps, her stomach tightening.

It is him.

Isadora’s boyfriend.

Vivienne’s grip on the strap of her tote bag tightens, the world around her dulling and shrinking.

Then suddenly, the slow, deliberate click of heels against the floorboard echoes. Vivienne doesn’t need to turn around. Right behind her, she hears Isadora’s exhale as if she has seen this coming.

“I always knew he was gonna end up this way.”

It’s a casual comment. But it isn’t. And Vivienne knows it.

Isadora has always scared her. Not because of the constant beating. But because after her father’s conviction, Isadora changed drastically. Something seems to have gone wrong inside her. She became cold, vile, and dangerously spontaneous.

Her words, her tone, be it a threat or a harmless comment, never means just one thing anymore.

Vivienne can’t shake off the doubt in her mind hearing this news. Sure, many people have died from an overdose in the past. But this? It sounds wrong, weird, incomplete.

It’s not a coincidence. This is not karma’s work at all.

The click of Isadora’s heel echoes toward the kitchen. Vivienne stands frozen, staring at the video as they wheel Josh’s body out on a stretcher.

The sound of coffee pouring into a mug breaks through Vivienne’s thoughts.

“When I was fifteen, my uncle sexually assaulted me.” Vivienne’s head snaps to Isadora, her lips parting in shock.

Isadora sits on a stool now, stirring her coffee.

“Just stay still, Isadora, and you’ll enjoy it.” A devious smirk lifts the corner of Isadora’s lips. “After this, you’ll see. You’ll beg for more.”

“My mom didn’t believe me. Two days later, he died.” A chuckle echoes in the room. “Doctors said it was a heart attack. But hey, what if someone got a little reckless and slipped too much of his blood pressure meds into his scotch whiskey? I mean, what if?”

The shock paralyzes Vivienne.

“You see.” Her gaze flickers to Vivienne. “Bad people don’t deserve some prison wall filled with chances. They deserve to die miserably.”

Vivienne doesn’t need to ask. The fiery spark of evil in Isadora’s dark eyes says it all.

Josh’s death wasn’t natural. It wasn’t karma either. It was a murder staged so perfectly.

Isadora killed her boyfriend.