Or rather, who gave him that daughter.
I saw the scar on her stomach.
I see it every time she takes off her clothes.
It’s there, more prominent than the other scars peppering her body, but she’s never brought it up, so I always let it go. Whatever story is behind it must be one she doesn’t want to tell. Because I’ve given her ample opportunity to spill it. Tell me a story. But she’d rather spew some bullshit fairy tales.
I know scars, though. I know the kind of scar a bullet leaves behind. I know the kind left from a knife. Gashes, and welts, and burns—the scars are recognizable. I can read a body like a book and tell you everything it has been through. A litany of fucking horror stories written right onto the flesh. I know the story of a metal shovel to the face, blunt force trauma that should’ve killed a teenage boy but instead turned him into a nightmare.
But the most recognizable scars are deliberate, the ones caused by a carefully controlled cut with a scalpel. I know when you’ve had your appendix removed, when you’ve had open-heart surgery, when you’ve had a tracheotomy…
And I know when you’ve had C-section.
It’s damn near impossible to hide that truth.
Easier to ignore, though.
Believe me, I ignored it.
Can’t ignore it anymore.
I’m a fucking fool.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Your daughter?”
He smiles. “Shoot me, Mister Scar, and you will never know.”
I don’t take kindly to being threatened.
Blackmail? Coercion? Not fucking happening.
I get it, you know... there are consequences to every action. Cause and effect. If this, then that. But there are consequences to inaction, too, and that’s something people don’t often realize.
Scarlet is living the consequences right now because nobody has stopped this from happening.
My stepfather’s voice bounces around in my head as I sit in the passenger seat of my car, slouching down in the dark, the obnoxious ding-ding-dinging of the put on your fucking seatbelt warning echoing through the small space.
A clear conscience just means you’ve got a bad memory. He used to say it all the time. And I’ve gotta tell you, right about now, I wish I could catch a case of amnesia and have my memory wiped, because my conscience is muddled tonight.
“Speak,” I say sharply, my voice making Seven jump as he speeds toward Queens. He keeps casting sidelong glances my way, not saying a damn word, subtlety not his strong suit. “Ask your questions or get out of my car.”
“What happened?”
“What happened?” I repeat. “You wanna maybe specify a bit? Because a lot has happened in my life, Seven, and I’m not interested in spilling my guts to you like a little bitch.”
He hesitates, turning on the blinker to make a left turn. Once he’s onto the next road, merging back into traffic, he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Lets go with why do you have a teddy bear?”
“Gift from my favorite philosopher,” I say, glaring at the thing as it rests on the dashboard.
Seven doesn’t understand, but it’s not my place to explain it to him. Hell, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all. I get it, it’s all there, but how to deal with it is another matter.
The more he stays out of it, the better off he is.
“Look, they’ve got history,” I say. “He wants her back. She doesn’t want to go. He’s getting desperate. That’s all you really need to know. I was going to shoot him, but I decided not to, so here we are. You’re all caught up. Now get me to my house, and then go home to your wife, and don’t worry about what else might’ve happened, because it’s not your problem. Just worry about yourself.”
He nods once and says nothing else, the rest of the drive complete silence.
Well, except for the seatbelt warning.
The house is lit up when I get there. Seven gives me my keys, and I take my phone, before snatching up the old teddy bear, carrying it by its burned foot.
I head inside, saying goodnight to Seven.
The first thing I hear when I open the front door is another goddamn song being sung.
Someone put Baby in a corner and Patrick Swayze got pissed. Blah. Blah. Blah. You know what it is.
Leo and his girlfriend are cuddling on the new couch. I slip right past them, heading for the library, finding it empty and dark. The first thing I notice, though, is my puzzle has been fixed, the broken pieces stuck back together.
No Scarlet, though.
Walking back out, I head for the stairs, hearing my brother shout out as I pass the living room. “Hey, bro!”
I stall in the doorway, nodding in greeting. “You seen Scarlet?”
“No,” he says. “Might be upstairs, though.”
“I figured.”
“I see you got us a new couch.” He runs his hand along the leather arm. “Where’d you get it?”
“Stole it from a strip club.”
He laughs, like I’m joking, so I just walk off before he comes to the realization that he’s cuddling his girlfriend on a couch where dozens of men have probably jacked off.
I trudge upstairs. It’s dark. I think maybe she’s trying to sleep, but the bed is empty, as is the bathroom. I turn to leave when my gaze catches something in my reflection above the dresser.
Reaching over, I flick on the light, stopping where I am. Lipstick is smeared on the mirror, two words scribbled in red.
I’m sorry.
She’s gone.
I know it.
Those words tell me that.
That’s as good as a ‘goodbye’ as I’m probably getting, as far as farewells go with this woman.
I don’t like it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunrise is coming.
There’s a hint of light on the horizon, the pitch black sky a deep purple hue in the east, slowly pushing toward blue. Another hour or so and the skyline will be streaked with colors, orange and pink and white as the sun settles in, daylight arriving. It’s weird, the twitch of anticipation I feel.
I haven’t watched the sun come up in weeks. I’m still awake whenever it happens, my internal clock set to see it, but the clouds or buildings have blocked my view.
I miss it.
I miss her.
I try not to think about it so much. Maybe that’s hard for you to understand. But dwelling gets me no closer to finding the end to this drawn-out nightmare. So I compartmentalize. I tuck it away, deep inside of me, locking it up somewhere safe where the world can’t touch it, where reality can’t reach it or try to take it from me. It gets me through every minute of every hour. Without it, I’m not sure I’d survive much longer.
“Shove your apology up your ass, Scarlet. I don’t accept it.”
The voice calls out behind me, loud and brash, a genuine hint of anger in his words that makes a chill flow through me.
Lorenzo.
I’m standing on the ledge on the roof of this apartment building again, one of the last places I should be, probably, but I knew I’d be able to catch the sunrise from here.
Guess he knew it, too.
Didn’t take him long to find me.
I didn’t expect him to bother, to be honest, but there’s that little part of me that selfishly hoped he cared. He shouldn’t, because I bring nothing but trouble, but still… I yearn to mean something.
Do you know what that’s like?
To know you’re poison but still be desperate for someone to sip from you anyway?
“Did you kill him?” I ask quietly, staring out at the city, over toward Brooklyn, where I know he went last night. Where I know he heard my truth. How much of it, I’m not sure, but knowing Kassian, it would be just enough.
“Wanted to,” he says. “Thought about it. Almost did it. But no, he’s still alive.”
The relief I feel sickens me. The world around me spins. I close my eyes, to take a deep breath, trying to calm my achey chest.
I hear Lorenzo approach. He purposely snuck up on me, making no noise on his way to the roof, but he’s being deliberate about it now, warning me he’s coming closer.
Opening my eyes again, I carefully turn around, words on the tip of my tongue about how I truly am sorry he got mixed up in my mess, when the wind is knocked right out of me. It feels like a fist slams into my gut. I gasp. My heart stalls. My vision grows hazy until I see nothing.