by Jessie Evans
“I am a liar, and a thief, and a sociopath,” I say. “And I don’t plan to change. Is that really who you want helping you raise the kids?”
“Yes, because you’re also a good man,” she says, with a ferocity that surprises me. “And because I’m all of those things, too.”
“Only because I’ve messed you up,” I say. “You’ll be better off when I’m gone.”
“No, I won’t.” She shakes her head hard enough to send her hair flying around her shoulders. “I don’t want to go back to who I was before. I don’t care if the old Caitlin was a better version of me; I want to be the person I am with you. I want to feel this alive and happy and whole. I won’t go back, even if you walk out that door right now.”
“But please…please stay.” Her forehead wrinkles and her tear-filled eyes squeeze shut and I can feel her pain like it’s my own, because it is.
She isn’t the only one who feels like a piece of her body is being ripped away. She’s a part of me now, the best part, and for the first time in my life I don’t feel alone. And she feels the same, I can see it in her eyes, feel it vibrating in the air around us. I’ve met my perfect match, and we’re in love.
The irony that it happened now is enough to crush my heart to bloody pieces.
“I can’t.” I choke out as I turn toward the door.
“You won’t,” she counters with a sob.
“Same difference,” I say, hand closing around the door handle. “I’m leaving town soon. I don’t want to see you again. Don’t come by my house, don’t call, don’t contact me, or my family, unless you have a question for my father about your case.”
She draws in a shuddering breath, but before she can say another word, I push through the door into the summer heat. It’s only then—as I’m rushing across the patchy lawn with the sun beating down hard enough to make beads of sweat pop on my upper lip—that I realize the air conditioning had been on inside the house.
I’ve been telling her to turn it on for weeks, promising it was safe to let down her guard, to stop hoarding every cent, and spend some money on things that will make her and the kids more comfortable.
It seems she finally took my advice, just in time for me to prove she should never have listened to a bastard like me.
Chapter Thirteen
Caitlin
If it's drowning you’re after, don’t torment yourself with shallow water. –Irish Proverb
I don’t know how long I sit on the couch and cry after he leaves. It seems like hours, and only a few moments, all at the same time. The pain is so intense it feels like it’s been eating away at me forever, and so sharp it’s as if the knife is just sliding in—fresh and agonizing.
I cry and cry, but it doesn’t make the hurt go away. It doesn’t even take the edge off. I know I’m wasting time and energy, but I can’t stop. I am broken, and thanks to Gabe I don’t know how to put myself back together again. The old Caitlin would have already swallowed all these feelings and started throwing something together for dinner—since hamburger night has clearly fallen through. Old Caitlin would have put inconvenient emotions aside for later, put her chin up, and soldiered on.
No, old Caitlin would never have had these emotions in the first place. She didn’t let down her guard; she didn’t invite strangers in. She didn’t know what it was like to hold Gabe’s hand, to laugh with him over a dozen private jokes, to look into his eyes while he moved above her and see the pleasure-pain in his expression as they made love.
Pleasure, because every time Gabe and I touch it is magic; pain because it’s almost too beautiful, too perfect, too close. When Gabe and I make love, I know he can see into every corner of my heart, every dark hollow in my soul. He takes me all in, every twisted piece, and reflects an image so beautiful, I had started to believe his reflection was the true one. I had started to believe I was lovable, and that Gabe was going to change his mind and stay with me, no matter what kind of plans he’d made, no matter how stubborn he is once he has set his mind on something.
Deep down, I’d thought I was enough to hold him, and be everything he’d ever need.
I still can’t believe I was so wrong. I saw the way Gabe looked at me; I felt the reverence in his touch. He never touched me like something he planned to throw away. He touched me like what we had was sacred. I know he’s an amazing liar, but I didn’t think even he was this good, so good I’d have no clue he was checking out until the rug was yanked out from beneath me and I was already flying through the air.
Guess that’s what happens when you fall in love with a sociopath, I think, but that word doesn’t sit any better in my head than it did in my heart when Gabe used it as an excuse to walk away.
Gabe might be a sociopath; I might be a sociopath—I probably am, it would go a long way to explaining why I don’t feel bad about any of the things Gabe and I have done—but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a code. There are certain things I would never do. I would never abandon my family, I would never hurt an innocent, and I would never kick someone while they were down.
Aside from the conversation we had when I drew the line at robbery, forbidding other criminal activity, Gabe and I never sat down to talk about morals or ethics, but I felt in my gut that we saw things the same way. Gabe is blunt, but he’s never cruel. He’s self-interested, but never selfish—quite the opposite in fact. I know he would have given me every dime in his trust fund if I’d asked for it. He’s changeable, but his promises mean something. He doesn’t give his word or strike a deal unless he intends to follow through.
“So why is he backing out now?” I whisper, my voice thick from crying.
I stand, suddenly full of restless energy, and move into the kitchen. I grab a tissue and blow my nose, mop up my face, and think about the question.
Why is he backing out now? Something must have changed…but what?
It’s not the kids; that smelled like a lie from beginning to end. It’s not because we’re falling in love. We’ve been falling in love for weeks. If he was going to run because he was getting too close, my gut says he would have run the night he found out he was my first. But he didn’t run; he stayed and made love to me again, and slept over, and continued to sleep over almost every night since.
We’ve had innocent fun on the weekends with the kids, and wicked fun late at night, just the two of us—planning jobs, pulling them off, and coming home to celebrate naked in my bed. The only thing we’ve ever fought about is whether or not to waste money turning on the air conditioning, and that’s no reason to break up, especially not considering I finally turned the fucking thing on last night.
I pace back and forth in the kitchen, running through every moment of the six weeks we spent together, but out of all the memories we’ve made, the only moment that sets my radar to blipping is last night.
Last night, when Gabe was acting so strangely. Last night, when he was dizzy, and would have been caught if I hadn’t been there to help him.
Could that be it? Is he afraid we’re going to get caught? If that’s it, a part of me insists this rift will be easy to fix. We can simply stop pulling jobs and be a normal couple—problem solved.
But I know it’s not that easy. The jobs are as much a part of me and Gabe as the jokes and the family burger nights and the way we make love like we were made to give each other pleasure. The rush I feel when I’m in my blacks and Gabe and I are whispering through our last minute checklist is as sweet as the kisses after. I love everything that makes us us, and that includes giving the horrible people we’ve robbed a little of what they deserve. Giving up pulling jobs together would be like giving up making love. Our relationship would suffer, wither, and eventually become something less than it was before.
Maybe Gabe has already figured that out. Maybe he’s realized that the rush is an integral part of who we are as a couple, but that there’s no way to keep doing what we do without eventually getting caught. Maybe he’s finally realized what I’ve known since the beginning—that h
e might not always be able to protect me, no matter how honest his intentions.
And maybe that’s why he’s doing this. He’s calling things off before I get caught or hurt, and the kids suffer the consequences. That would make sense with the Gabe I know, the one who’s come to care about my brothers and Emmie, and who realizes I’m the only thing standing between them and a hard life none of them deserve.
“But it’s my choice,” I say, dampening the edge of a dishtowel, and using it to wipe my sticky, tear-streaked face.
It is my choice, and my life, and I should be the one who gets to decide whether the risk is worth the reward. And Gabe should know better than to think I’m going to let him make my decisions for me. The only time he calls the shots is in the bedroom, and that’s not even completely accurate. He takes the lead when we’re naked because I allow him to take the lead. I’m still in control, and we’re still a team, even when I’m following his directions and making myself vulnerable to him.
And if I’m right and Gabe is really sacrificing everything we have because he’s decided this isn’t good for me, then this conversation isn’t over. I’ll fight for him the same way I fight for the kids, because he is precious and irreplaceable and I can’t bear the thought of never seeing his face again.
The frightened, helpless feeling that turned my stomach to acid when Gabe walked out the door subsides, replaced by resolve to keep fighting until I get through to the pig-headed man I love. With a final sniff, I grab a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and cups from the cupboard and head out into the backyard.
Outside, the sun is lower in the sky than I expect it to be and the kids are unusually subdued. Sean is still half-heartedly kicking the soccer ball around the perimeter of the fence, but Danny and Ray are lying on a blanket in the shade reading comic books, with Emmie asleep next to them, her flushed cheek resting on Danny’s leg and her thumb popped between her lips.
I set the lemonade on the picnic table and perch on the edge of the seat, grateful for the shade and the breeze that drifts through the backyard, cooling my flushed skin in a way even the air conditioning in the house couldn’t seem to manage.
“Hey,” I say softly to Ray and Danny, not wanting to wake Emmie. “How do you guys feel about chicken tonight? We could go into town and hit Charlie’s, get a bucket of chicken and some rolls, and eat it in the park.”
Ray looks up from his comic book, brows furrowed. “What about burger night?”
“Burger night’s cancelled,” Danny says bitterly, not lifting his eyes from the page he’s on. “Gabe bailed.”
“Gabe didn’t bail,” I lie. “He’s just…sorting through some things. I’m going to go talk to him tomorrow before I go into work.”
“So we can have burger night some other night?” Ray asks.
“Sure. You guys want some lemonade? It’s nice and cool.”
Danny grunts. “Screw lemonade. And screw burger night.”
“Language, Danny,” I say, but I’m too tired to muster up a threatening tone.
“Gabe isn’t coming back,” Danny says, snapping his comic book closed. “I saw the look on his face. He’s done with us.”
“If he’s done with anyone, it’s me,” I say. “This has nothing to do with you. Gabe cares about all of you. So much.”
“If he cares so much, why did he dump you?” Danny asks.
I frown. “Who says he dumped me?”
Danny looks up at the leaves swaying overhead, lips tight around the edges. “The phone rang about an hour ago. It keep ringing and ringing, so I went in to answer it. I thought you’d gone out front or something, but you were on the couch crying.”
“Oh,” I say, sighing. “I’m sorry.”
“You were so out of it you didn’t even hear the phone,” Danny says flatly, in that voice that I know means something has scared him and he’s trying hard not to show it. “I asked you if you were okay, but you didn’t hear me, either. So I just grabbed the comic books and came back outside.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I was upset.” I take a deep breath. “But I’m better now, and I think Gabe and I can sort this out.”
Danny finally looks away from the leaves. “It’s just weird,” he says, the hurt in his eyes making my stomach ache. “I mean…everything seemed fine.”
“I know,” I agree, mouth pulling to one side as I fight a wave of emotion. “I know it did.”
“I hate surprises,” Ray says in a soft voice. “That’s why I like books. Even if things are bad for a long time, the good guys always win in the end.”
“Not in all books,” I say. “Literary fiction usually ends pretty badly.”
Ray shrugs. “That’s why I’m not going to read those. I like books I can trust.”
I smile. “I like those, too.”
Danny sighs. “I’d rather play video games. Is it cool if I go in?”
“Yeah. Let me help you with Emmie.” I slip off the bench onto the blanket, gently holding Emmie while Danny shifts his leg free, before easing her back onto the blanket. She whimpers in her sleep, but doesn’t wake up, so I settle down beside her, knowing nothing will help ease the ache in my chest like watching Emmie sleep.
“Don’t get in too deep with anything,” I warn Danny as he stands. “I’m going to bring everyone in to get cleaned up to go out to dinner in thirty minutes. I’ll call the house phone from my cell and let it ring once so you’ll know to turn off the blood and guts.”
Danny nods, and starts to go before stopping and turning back. “That reminds me, the phone call earlier was weird.”
“How so?” I swipe a stray curl from Emmie’s forehead.
“It was some guy. He asked if you were home, and I said yeah, did he want to talk to you, but then he just hung up.”
I look back at him, brows drawing together. “He didn’t give his name?”
Danny shakes his head. “No, he just hung up.”
I hum, wondering who in the world would be calling for me. Gabe and Isaac are the only boys who ever call and Isaac is mad at me, and Gabe told me he was never going to contact me again.
“But it sounded like somebody I know,” Danny adds. “The voice was familiar.”
“One of Dad’s friends, maybe?” I ask. “The ones that used to come over before he moved in with Veronica?”
Danny shrugs. “I don’t know. But it was weird. I’m not answering the phone anymore. I’m going to let it fucking ring until someone else gets it.”
“Language,” I say automatically, but as Danny rolls his eyes and heads inside, my mind is still on the phone call.
I guess it could be someone from work, but Harry and Carlos are the only men at the diner and neither of them would call and not leave their names. Some of the guys at the movie theater, however, are perpetually stoned, even when they’re running the popcorn machine. They might have called to see if I could cover a shift, forgetting that I quit my job at the theater until after they had Danny on the phone.
But what if it’s someone else…maybe even a mark who has figured out I was on their property? It’s a long shot—Gabe and I were always so careful—but even a chance one of the monsters we’ve targeted called my house is enough.
I decide to invest in a security system tomorrow morning, and put the phone call momentarily out of mind.
I take the kids out to eat and play at the park, then herd everyone home and get them bathed and in P.J.s and in bed by ten. Then, I spend two hours on our ancient computer researching sociopaths, and decide the term doesn’t apply to either Gabe or me. Gabe never tried to manipulate me or turn me into a victim. Gabe never took pleasure in hurting me. Even today, when he was trying to be so hard, I could tell it was killing him to say the things he did.
I decide that, whatever Gabe and I are, it’s something gentler than a sociopath. Or that sociopathic tendencies must cover a wide spectrum. Maybe being a sociopath is less like a skyscraper hotel with cookie-cutter rooms, and more like a lake surrounded by individual c
abins, each one with its own unique characteristics, but very similar views.
I’m not sure what to think, but I feel more informed, and less alone. The fact that I’m comforted that there are thousands of people in the world like me and Gabe—high functioning, intelligent people who enjoy breaking society’s rules, and rarely feel guilty about it—is probably confirmation that I’m somewhere on the sociopath spectrum, but by the time I snap the laptop closed, I’m too sleepy to care.
I trudge upstairs to the bathroom, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I change into the sleep shirt I hung on the back of the door this morning—the pink one Gabe hates—and head toward bed, exhaustion tugging at the backs of my eyes. I’m still torn up about what happened today, but I’m also hopeful that I’ll be able to get through to Gabe tomorrow. As far as I’m concerned, morning can’t come soon enough.
I open my door, so focused on getting my head on the pillow that I don’t see the shadow standing in the corner of the darkened room until he’s almost on top of me.
I freeze, lifting my hands to defend myself even as I open my mouth to scream, but then there is an explosion of pain and a flash of light behind my left eye. The world goes fuzzy around the edges, my knees turn to jelly, and I slide to the ground with a whimper, holding on to consciousness just long enough to hear Ned Pitt’s nasal voice whisper—
“You’ve been a bad girl, Miss Cooney.”
And then I black out, terror following me into the dark.
Chapter Fourteen
Gabe
The course of true love never did run smooth. -Shakespeare
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed for hours, but I can’t sleep and I can’t quit thinking about her.
It’s all I’ve done all day. I keep seeing her face in that moment before I bolted, with her cheeks flushed and wet with tears, and the shattered look in her eyes. I keep hearing the way her voice cracked when she told me she loved me, feeling the hairline fractures in my heart getting wider and wider.