the mannequin man ☞ patd

iv

"Is there a Mrs. Urie?" I ask, chewing down on the salad Mr. Urie prepared for me. I couldn't go on resisting his food anymore; I'd starve. Besides, the salad isn't so bad.

Mr. Urie is on the other side of the long table with no food on his plate—just like the other few times he's fed me. "There was," he speaks quietly, scratching at the back of his head. "Back in Summer. I've forgotten exactly how many summers ago—I've lost track, but we were only half a year married. There was a small altercation between us and now she's gone."

Is he sad about it? He speaks so monotonously about her. "I'm sorry," I mumble. "I don't mean to ask too many questions, but what was her name?"

"Sarah."

That name sounds familiar. It's a rather common name, yes, but I could've sworn Mr. Urie said something about a woman named Sarah before. My eyes close to slits as I stare him down. "Don't you have a mannequin named Sarah?"

He nearly jumps at me as he says, "They're not mannequins. They're statues."

"Well, all the the rumors call them mannequins. Sorry."

His anger escalates like a rocket. "Rumors? What rumors? There aren't any rumors about me!" Mr. Urie exclaims.

My eyebrows raise in pure astonishment. "Do you really believe that?" I scoff. "The whole town has stories about you!"

Mr. Urie's hostility falters a little bit, but his jawline sets as he sits back in his chair. "Like what?" he asks through gritted teeth.

I start quoting everything Jon, Spencer, Alex, and Dan told me about him. About how when girls come here, they don't come out or how he never goes outside because he's afraid of getting caught.

Mr. Urie slouches down in his chair. An expression of hurt crawls across his face. "They say that about me?" he mumbles.

"Every last bit of it plus more," I say, my heart twisting in sympathy.

"Then why are you here? Obviously, all your knowledge of me is that I'm a psychopath, so why are you living with me?"

"I told you," I say kind of quietly, "it was a dare." I feel kind of bad, but what did this guy think? That we were friends or something?

God, those seconds where we sit silently and stare at each other feel like a dull knife is being twisted in my guts. "It's pretty late," I say, getting up and walking away.

"It's barely eight."

"I'm going to go to bed," I say, quickening my pace toward the door.

I've got one more night here, and after that, I'm gone. I can't believe I survived this.