Page 42 of Ruthless Creatures

“For your information, counselor, I haven’t used any battery-operated devices since I met the man.”

“Hmm. Just your fingers, huh?”

“Be gone, evil witch.”

“Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”

“Why does every phone call with you end with me wanting to find a tall building to jump off?”

She laughs. “That’s love, babe. If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t real.”

It’s funny how an offhand remark can turn out in the future, like some horrible prophecy, to be such perfectly accurate truth.

ELEVEN

NAT

A month goes by. Then another. Thanksgiving comes and goes. Teaching keeps me busy during the days, and Sloane, Mojo, and my art keep me busy at night.

I started painting again. Not the meticulous landscapes I used to do, but abstracts. Bold, violent slashes of color on the canvas, emotional and unrestrained. Landscapes are all about what I see, but these… these are all about what Ifeel.

I won’t show them to anyone. They’re more like spiritual vomit than art. I assume it’s a phase that will pass, but for now, I’m into it.

It’s way cheaper than therapy. Works better, too.

David’s letter had me unsettled for a while, but by the time December arrives, I’m in a place where I’m grateful for that one last piece of contact. That final missive from beyond the grave.

I’ve finally accepted that he’s never coming back.

Sloane was right: he had an accident. He went hiking that morning and lost his footing. The trails were rough. The terrain, steep. The canyons of the Sierras were carved by ancient glacierscutting through granite, and some of them dive four thousand feet down from the peaks.

No matter how experienced he was in the wilderness, it couldn’t save him from that one narrow stretch of rocky trail that crumbled under his weight and gave way, sending him tumbling down into oblivion.

There’s no other plausible explanation.

It took me five years to accept, but now that I have, I feel… well, not exactly at peace. I’m not sure I’ll ever get there. Accepting, maybe. And grateful.

Grateful for everything we had, even though it wasn’t destined to last a lifetime.

My lifetime, anyway.

And if every once in a while I’m sure I feel someone watching me, I chalk it up to having a guardian angel looking out for me from above.

The only other alternative is that I’m suffering from paranoia, and I’m really not prepared to deal with that.

When my doorbell rings two weeks before Christmas, it’s six o’clock. It’s dark outside, snowing steadily, and I’m not expecting anyone, so I’m surprised.

I’m also just about to take cookies out of the oven. One more minute and they’ll be done, two and they’ll be burnt to a crisp. The oven hasn’t been replaced since the house was built in the sixties, and I’m pretty sure it’s possessed by the devil.

I hurry to the door, pulling off my oven mitts. When I get the door open, I’m distracted. I’m also looking down, so the first thing I see is a pair of big black boots dusted with snow.

I look up from the boots to see more black: jeans, shirt, wool overcoat with the collar turned up. The eyes staring back at me are a shade lighter than black, but they might as well be for how darkly they burn.

It’s Kage.

My heart plummets to somewhere around my kneecaps. I say loudly,“You.”

“Yes. Me.”