Page 2

One

Present

F lash barely lifts his head when I get home. One eye opens to peer at me through his soggy lid and a deep sigh is the only acknowledgment he gives to let me know he’s alive. I drop my bag on the floor next to the side table and step out of my heels.

“Gee, thanks.”

His thick, short paws reach out as he allows himself a full body stretch before reluctantly getting up.

I give him a solid head and neck scratch before heading to the back door to let him out.

His long ears nearly drag on the floor as he waddles his way behind me.

The tick, tick, click of his nails on the hardwood a welcome, comforting sound.

I push open the back door and watch him disappear into the yard.

At a certain age, comfort becomes king. You walk in the door in the evening, with the overwhelming urge to change into jammie pants, an oversized worn band tee shirt from years past, and slippers.

And the bra, the bra is the first thing you want to go.

My slippers quietly swish across the hardwood floor as I set the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees. Pulling out a covered plate of leftovers, I lament that I’m eating them again. A nondescript casserole I made over the weekend for family dinner night at Eve’s house.

All of us involved with The Tutor case—Nora, Aubry, Lotte, Eve, Agent Brown, and Detective Salve—attempt to have dinner together once every few months.

It’s probably breaking some ethics rule somewhere, but that case bonded us all, fused us together in a way that tangled our personal lives, for better or worse.

It’s nice to sit and share a meal together in a non-professional capacity. To laugh and talk and catch up. I don’t have many friends. There are too many commitments already vying for my time to make or invest in new friends.

I set my ladybug-shaped egg timer for dinner, the rhythmic clicking reminding me of my life slowly ticking away. I blow out a breath and flop onto the couch. I take a moment to enjoy the utter lack of sound around me.

Listening all day to people talk makes the silence that much sweeter, come the end of the day. The house is quiet, just me and Flash.

No little footsteps, no giggles or witty banter from a child, spouse, or roommate.

Just me.

Singular.

I am not a beautiful woman, nor an ugly woman who looks pretty.

They are two different things. I am average.

Just an average woman who ended up in a non-average situation.

Looking back, I can’t exactly pinpoint when life started snowballing.

It was gradual. A slow and tedious plunge into a dark pool.

My heart aches, an erratic lumpy thudding against my ribs.

Habit is a difficult thing to break and my mind wanders to thoughts I’ve pushed into the cobwebs during the day. My eyes wander to the windows, and the open back door. The thrill of being watched, however, never comes, and that deviant venom seeps into my bones a little more.

I know gray areas. Lines that should not be crossed, right and wrong, but I ignored them all—for him. I became no better than the patients I counsel with our blurred lines and aberrant proclivities. I take a sip of wine silently praying it brings the relaxation I crave.

The stack of mail on the side table and I are in a familiar staring match. Under today’s mail, there is a wildly thick letter.

It arrived five days ago.

It remains unopened.

It wants to consume me, kill me, tear me apart.

It wants to thrill me.

I fear that thrill, the fire burning low in my belly.

It’s something I’ve been able to control—for now.

I look away, knowing whatever the envelope contains more than likely has the ability to chew me up and spit me out.

But even just knowing it’s there lets something dark into the cracks of my heart.

Flash comes in, right to me, and rubs against my shins with vigor before heading to his empty food bowl, picking it up in his teeth and tossing it on the floor to alert me that he’s hungry.

I barely hear the clatter because I’m lost in memories of the last time I saw him. Of the way his eyes gave away his panic. Of the immense pressure on my chest that made it near impossible to catch a breath.

To watch something you value implode before your eyes is painful. You can’t outrun wicked. You can only stand still and pray.

Guilt gnaws at my gut. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.

We all have secrets, me included. I am a pro at burying it. I’m ruthless in ignoring it and my deepest emotions. In a way, my profession trained me to be able to do just that, alongside the most disturbed.

The timer rings, loud and shrill. Flash’s bowl crashes against the floor again.

I lit the fuse, then tried to run and hide, I think.

Hissing out a small snort, the sound of Flash’s food bowl between his teeth forces me to get up off the couch.

He tosses his bowl toward the dog food cabinet.

I turn off the oven and pull out my dinner before filling his bowl. At least I have Flash.

He has no one anymore.

People aren’t mirrors, they don’t reflect how you see yourself. Which is a shame, because sometimes we, as humans, need to see ourselves in the light others cast us in. It’s an overlooked idea in my book.

The problem is that sometimes the light people cast you in, versus the light you see yourself in, can make you feel like an imposter. People never truly share themselves with others fully. There’s always a piece of themselves they hold onto for just them.

Something sacred.

Something no one else can touch or take away. But that was what he loved so much—witnessing those minuscule tidbits of people. I shake the runaway thoughts from my head.

After dinner, I check my emails before spending thirty minutes in the bathroom applying every face and anti-aging cream known to man on my face, neck, decolletage, and the backs of my hands. People forget about the backs of their hands, but they’re a dead giveaway as far as age is concerned.

New paperback tucked under my armpit, I pass through the hall and back downstairs to make sure the lights are off and the doors are locked. The spindly, tile-topped table with the letter is an affront as I pass it.

Pausing, I look back at it. Curiosity, months in the making, seizes me.

All the missed calls.

The plethora of voicemails.

And now, the damned, thick, letter.

I let my forefinger run across it.

Testing it.

Almost hoping for an electric shock to steer me away from it, but nothing happens.

My phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up.

A text from Nora Lockwood.

We haven’t spoken since her wedding just three weeks ago, which was an extraordinary event, but then, why wouldn’t it be? She is a remarkable person, and everything she touches in life becomes exceptional.

She’s been off honeymooning the last two weeks.

Instead of opening and reading the text, I power down the phone and plug it in to charge.

Confiding in her could be so easy, but I’ve cut myself off. Fear and shame and judgment ever-present in my gut, I’ve kept him and I a secret.

Secrets feel special, and my deviant lapse in judgment remains a guilty pleasure so long as it only belongs to me. I alone must live with my choices, my regrets.

Maybe I’ve been punishing myself. He is clever and manipulative, and eventually, I just gave in. It wasn’t all my fault.

At least, I tell myself that.

He seduced me, and I didn’t fight it. But he’d say I’m just as bad. That I’m a fiend for him. For the things he asked me to do. For the things I agreed to. So maybe we’re the same. Maybe we deserved each other.

Maybe this damned letter taunting me is my penance.

I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s at least two inches thick.

I don’t look at it because I’m not going to read it.

I’m only holding it as a test.

I tell myself that as I carry it upstairs with me into my bedroom. My skin prickles.

“Bedtime Flash, com’on.” My tone is harsh with emotion. I sigh and pat my thigh for Flash.

“Com’on bud.”

***

My eyes pop open. My tank soaked through from night sweats. The red offending numbers read one thirty-two on the nightstand. Those same numbers cast a glow on the envelope beneath the paperback I read earlier.

Flash stirs at my feet. Panic wraps its icy fingers around me. I curl my toes, followed by my fingers, before uncurling them in the same order. It grounds me. No one knows your involvement.

I grab the envelope and clutch it to my chest. It could say so many things. It could shatter my memories—taint them forever, or it could lift me up and give me strength.

Bringing it to my nose, I sniff it—as if perhaps his smell still lingers on it somehow.

With my eyes tightly closed, I can almost hear his sultry voice calling to me. I should not have carried the letter upstairs.

I slip a finger under the tab and pull at the envelope gently. Sliding my fingers inside, I pull out a thick wad of pages.

In the darkness, all I have are the sensations. I can’t see the handwriting. I cannot read the words.

I let the moment linger, relishing these last bits of sanity before switching on the bedside lamp.

Robin,

It started out innocent. I swear. I just wanted to watch you, live, in the flesh. I had no intention of anything more or less. I certainly didn’t intend to ruin your life. I’m writing this letter because I need to confess.

I stare at the wall, gathering my thoughts because what I want to say is specific, and I want you to understand that.

I want to be concise and clear in my intentions.

I need each statement to make an impact.

And although I used to be paid to write, I’m struggling to conjure up meaningful words to convey my emotions.

I don’t know who’s in control anymore, and with every stroke of my pen, I say a little prayer that you will even read this letter.