I turn onto my back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling, my eyelids drooping. Up there, Mom is sleeping. If I listen closely, I can hear her snoring. We spent the day baking cakes like we used to do when I was a teenager, and it exhausted her. I smile to myself; it’s good to reconnect with Mom after more than a year. Then my eyes close.
I must not be asleep for long, because when I open my eyes again, the light is the same red-orange. The door creaks. Did I hear a motorbike? I think, Maddox. Am I awake? I don’t think so, maybe half-awake, half-asleep. I try to move, but sleep paralysis comes over me, that nasty condition when you’re awake but you can’t move. I try to call out, Maddox! But my lips don’t move. The door closes and footsteps sound across the room. That is Maddox, isn’t it? I think. But it must be. He’s the only one who knows where I am, and Mom doesn’t have visitors, certainly not visitors who’d let themselves in like that.
I call out again, and this time the spell of sleep breaks and I manage a whisper: “Maddox.” But the sleep paralysis of my body has not gone completely. My arms and legs won’t move an inch.
The footsteps walk around to the back of the couch. I feel eyes on me, and my skin pricks. It’s not Maddox. I don’t see, but I sense. Coldness falls over my like a sheet of ice. Then I sit bolt upright. Sleep falls away from me, and I twist around and stare at the source of the footsteps.
The form that watches me is shadowed, and at first, I can’t make out who it is. I squint, and the form takes shape. I see a hooded sweatshirt and fingerless gloves and dyed hair tied up in a bun. I trail my eyes along the length of her arm. Then I gasp. I want to scream, but she brings a finger to her lips.
“Shh,” she grins.
I bite down on my tongue. The gun is pointed straight at my face, and Cassandra holds it with a killer’s calm. Her eyes regard me with contempt.
“You’re going to do exactly as I say,” she says.
I think of Mom upstairs, of the awful things this woman would do to her, and I nod.
“Good girl,” Cassandra smiles. “Yes, very good girl.”
***
“Stand up, then,” Cassandra says. “There’s a good slut.”
Slut, I think. Yes, it always comes back to that, doesn’t it? I’m a slut because I’m with a man she wants to be with. I’m a slut because I love and am loved. That’s always the label. I stand up mechanically, fear pounding from my center mass all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes, pounding, pounding. It’s a perverse caricature of what I feel during sex with Maddox: the same pounding, the same all-consuming sensation, but twisted by Cassandra.
She backs up a few paces, reaches around and grabs a chair, and then carries it around the couch. She places it on the floor and nods to it. “Take a seat, will you?” she says. When she steps into the light, I see that her black eyes have not yet fully healed. Two black circles mark her eyes, like over-applied mascara, panda-eyes.
I slump down in the chair, and Cassandra backs away and places the gun on the arm of the couch. “Listen,” she says, and she takes a switchblade from her pocket. “I’m going to tie you up. Can’t do that with a gun in my hand, and I can’t hold a gun like I can hold this knife. But let me tell you something, whore, if you make one move, I’ll slice you up like butcher’s meat. Do you understand?”
Mom sleeps with ear buds, something she has done her whole life, so I can’t even hope that she’ll hear and call the police.
“I’m too scared to do anything,” I say honestly. I can only talk her out of it, I think. That’s all. She’s almost twice the size of me. At the party, her hourglass figure seemed womanly, motherly; now it seems downright intimidating.
“Good.”
Cassandra holds the switchblade in her teeth and swings her backpack around. The straps of the backpack are black, the same color as her hoodie. A shadow woman, I think. A dark ghost.
The sun is low, and I’m facing the window, so I have to concentrate hard to fully see her. Otherwise, she is a silhouette. The sunlight is on my face.
She reaches into the backpack and takes out a long thick piece of rope. “Are you into BDSM?” she asks casually, walking to the chair and kneeling down. I could kick her, I think, but the knife between her teeth glistens, and she looks completely at ease. I was never trained for this, and so I do what I imagine most people would; I freeze. She ties my wrists to the arms of the chair, my ankles to the legs, and my waist to the back until I am completely secured.
“I never was,” she says when the bindings are secure. They dig into my skin, but I barely feel the pain. She shrugs, drops the knife, and picks up the gun. Then she sits on the couch and crosses her legs, an odd movement in her thick army-style cargo pants. She levels the gun at me casually as she talks. “No, never into that hardcore stuff. But you should see it, whore—the stuff I’ve done over the years, I mean. Men are so easy to play. It’s a joke, really. You flash a bit of cleavage, make all the right noises, suck a little, and they’re yours. Take Mason, for example. You’d think a man like that would know better than to fall for this . . .” She pouts her lips and flutters her eyelashes. “Oh, you’re such a big, strong man, aren’t you? I’ve been looking for a man like you.” Her voice is childlike.
Then she claps her hands together, made awkward by the gun. “Ha!” she grunts. “He fell for it, as they all do.”
“Except for Maddox,” I say, my voice a low whisper. “Maddox didn’t fall for it, did he?”
Cassandra makes a tut-tut noise with her tongue and then shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Well—not in the long term. But that’s my fault. I see that now. I showed him too much, too fast. I should’ve kept up my act. But don’t fool yourself into thinking that Maddox was immune to my charms because he wasn’t. Not even close. He bought into my as everyone did. Would you like to know how we met?”
Keep her talking, I tell myself. Maddox is on his way. Keep her talking! Just keep her talking!
“Of course,” I say, fighting to make my voice steady. “Of course I would.”
“Delightful,” Cassandra says. “Well, it was like this. I went to college with him. Maddox was a brilliant programmer, but a little coo-coo in the head. I know, coming from me! I’m not immune to irony. But I saw it in him, a madness. He was just as damaged as me. I played a role at college, of course, but I didn’t speak to Maddox much. Only in classes now and then. He was a brilliant programmer, yes, but I was better. I was the top of the class in every test. You see, when I put my mind to something, I’m – and I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, as it were – but I’m a genius. There are no two ways about it. That’s how I tracked you, you know. I have taps on everything Maddox owns, including his burner cell. He called you; I located you. And voila! But that’s not important, just demonstration of my genius.”
She’s looking for a compliment, I think in horror. It’s plain on her face, in the way she gazes at me with a childlike expression, like she can’t wait for me to vindicate her.
“Well done,” I croak.
She nods like that’s to be expected: like that’s all I could’ve said.
“Anyway, I took a liking to him at college, and so I kept tabs on him. He joined a biker gang, which was a big surprise to me. He was always tough, but I didn’t think he was that tough. He just marched right into the clubhouse and asked to join. I waited a few years, keeping an eye on him all the while, and then I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed him. I realized I was in love with him from the first moment I saw him. I had to have him.”
Hearing her talk about him like this makes me want to scream. She must see it on my face because she lifts the gun and points it at me meaningfully. Her finger strokes the trigger, and I have no doubt that she’d pull it.
“Don’t speak,” she says flatly. “It isn’t your place.”
I nod, holding my breath.
“So I arranged to meet him at a club. It wasn’t so hard, really. I’d kept tabs on him for so long. I saw that he and his biker pals sometimes
went to a club in town on Saturday nights, so I went there every Saturday until I saw him. And then I seduced him. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.” She sighs. “But then I got too close, showed him my true self. I see it all clearly now. I was a bit poorly, you see, and I thought he said some things he didn’t. I was confused, but I’m not anymore. I’ll tell him all of this when I see him. He’ll understand. And he’ll get over you, I’m sure.”
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
Cassandra reaches into her pocket and takes out a silver flip-lighter. She strokes it affectionately. “Poor child,” she smiles. “Caught in a blaze. Silly girl. Tut-tut. He’ll mourn, and I’ll find him, and I’ll throw myself at him. You have no idea how seductive I can be when I really put my mind to it. No man – no man – can resist me. I’m too sexy.” She says this proudly, curling her upper lip. “I’m way too sexy.”
She flips open the lighter and strokes her thumb along the ignition. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, Miss Little Whore. What does Maddox see in you, anyway? I mean, look at you. Thin like a boy. Ginger hair. Gaunt face. I don’t get it. And you’re a feminist. Why would a man like that want a feminist?”
“Please don’t light that,” I say. “There’s no need for it, Cassandra. No need at all. You’re ill. You need help. I can get you help.”
“Answer my question, whore!”
Jesus Christ, I think, mind whirring. Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!
“What does he see in me? I don’t know, I never asked.”
“You must have an idea,” she spits. “Come on, whore, don’t make me shoot you before I burn you. That would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it? I want to hear you scream.”
I wish I could look into her face and think: She won’t do it. She doesn’t have the nerve. I wish I could convince myself that she wasn’t as unhinged as she’s pretending to be. But she’s not pretending. I can see that clearly. She’s mad, and she’ll do it without question. She’ll burn this whole place down. The only chance I have is to keep her talking until Maddox arrives. And then what? She’ll just shoot you both! But I can’t dwell on that. One step at a time.
“I suppose it’s something to do with the way we feel when we’re together,” I speak each word slowly, drawing it out, counting every half-second gained as a victory. Speaking is difficult with my heart ricocheting in my chest, but I push on.
“The way you feel?”
“Yes,” I say. “There’s a connection.”
She scowls at me, but she’s listening. “Well, go on, then.”
I feel as though I am in a sick perversion of confession, and Cassandra is the priest.
“It’s like we’ve been waiting out whole lives to meet each other or someone like each other. I used to dream about a man like Maddox, a strong man, but also a kind man. Oh, he wasn’t like that at first. He was cocky, kind of a dick—but I’ve got to know him, and now I see, no matter how cocky he is, he has a good heart. As for why he wants me, I assume he must feel the same. Maybe he used to dream of meeting somebody like me, and now that he has he wants to hold onto me. Love is like that, I think.”
Love, I think, knowing if I did not have a gun pointed at me, my chest would fill with warmth.
“That’s sweet,” Cassandra says, voice trembling. “So, so sweet. You really are a nice girl, aren’t you?”
She shakes her head and the lighter sparks. “Thank you for telling me that,” she says, as the flame makes a small whoosh sound and bursts into life. “I think I can use that,” she goes on, her eyes glinting behind the flame. “I’ll be the woman Maddox has always dreamed of. I’ll be the woman he falls in love with. In a way, I wish I didn’t have to kill you.”
“Then don’t,” I say quickly. I strain against the rope, but she’s tied me with tight expert knots. “You don’t have to, Cassandra. Really, you don’t.”
“And will you leave Maddox?” she asks, but her tone is that of a woman who already knows the answer to her question. “No, I didn’t think so,” she giggles, reading my face. I’m sorry, sweet Eden, but this is the only way.”
Tears slide down my cheeks. When did I start crying? I think. When did that happen? What use is it now?
Then, bleary and hazy because of the tears, I see Maddox’s face pop up in the window.
Chapter Fifty Three
Maddox
I see Cassandra, the gun and the flip lighter, the flame—and I see Eden tied to a chair. She’s crying, but there’s something oddly matter-of-fact about the tears, like part of her has already accepted that what Cassandra is going to do is inevitable.
Rage explodes in my chest, courses down my arms to my fingertips. I clench my fists and march to the front door. I’m about to throw it open when something occurs to me. It’s a cool idea behind the rage, the leader of The Miseryed speaking in my mind. I want to rush in there and floor Cassandra, but she has a goddamn lighter in her hand, and I know she’ll do it. She wouldn’t think twice about it.
I raised my trembling fist and knock on the door twice. Knock-knock.
Cassandra is droning on and on about how this is the right thing to do, the only way. I can hear the satisfaction in her voice. I remember meeting her at the club, looking her up and down and thinking how hot it would be to have her. I never guessed, not at the start, what lay beneath her smiling face. It was even worse when I learned she was at the same college as me, doing the same course. Did she stalk me? I used to ask myself. Or is it a coincidence? I almost laugh: Well, I know now, don’t I?
At the sound of my knocks, Cassandra’s voice cuts away. “Who’s that?” she hisses after a moment. “Who the hell is that?” She sounds like an actress who’s furious at having her big moment in a play interrupted. “Are you expecting company?”
“Sometimes the m-m-mailman knocks.” When Eden stutters, I know that Cassandra has the gun pressed against her head. Without having to see, I can see it: Cassandra’s arms standing taut, muscular, the gun pressed flat and cruel against Eden’s skin. If you touch her, I think.
Footsteps sound across the house, coming toward the door. Good, I think, feeling like I do before a fight. My body is buzzing. My knuckles itch as though they can’t wait to feel the slap of a good punch. Even now, the idea of hitting a woman doesn’t appeal to me. But Cassandra isn’t a woman. She’s a goddamn demon. And I have no qualms about hitting a demon.
The footsteps stop a couple of feet from the door. “Hello?” Cassandra says. The transformation in her voice is terrifying. One second she’s mean and low and gloating; the next she’s the waitress at a fancy restaurant asking you if you’d like a refill. “Who is it?”
She’s too far from the door. A couple more feet and she’d be close enough. Then I could barge in and tackle her. But standing where she is, I can’t get to her. If I ran in, maybe . . . But then she could just as easily swing the gun and kill Eden. I bite down on my tongue, knowing that if I speak, she’ll recognize me. Even if I put on a different voice, she’d know. Cassandra isn’t the sort of person to forget things like that.
Hell, Cassandra isn’t the sort of person to forget anything.
Just two more steps, I think. Just walk forward two more steps.
But she doesn’t. She’s close enough so that I can hear her breathing, but working for The Miseryed, you get a sense of space. You know when a man – or a psychotic woman – is close enough to rush and when he’s not. You know when you can take someone and when someone will take you. My whole body is shaking with rage, but I fight it down and wait.
“Helloooooo,” she sings, and she could quite easily be an old mother waking her son for school, trying to be as nice as possible.
And then the footsteps recede, moving away from the door.
Damn it.
I back away from the door and creep back around to the window. When I poke my head up, she’s staring straight at me.
***
“Maddox!” she grins, the flame flickering in one hand and the gun pointed straight at Eden’s hea
d with the other. “How nice of you to join us!”
Eden has bitten back her tears, but a few drops still glide noiselessly down her cheeks. I want to hold her, more than anything. Just hold her and tell her that everything is going to be okay, hold her and let her know that I’m here for her and that I’ll never let anything like this happen again. I’m here now, I imagine myself saying. You’re safe. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll protect you.
But Cassandra holds the gun like she means to use it.
“Cassandra,” I say.
“Raise your hands,” Cassandra says. “I don’t want any funny business.”
I lift my hands above my head, and Cassandra nods with satisfaction.
“I always loved your hands, you know. Really. They know exactly what to do, don’t they? Exactly where to tickle. Exactly where to glide. I often dream about how they would move down my body, to my you-know-where.” She winks, and then licks her upper lip. The way it moves, she looks like a snake. “Why are you here, Maddox? Tell me that.”
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