Dead Ringer

41

I woke up in my own bed, clinging to every memory of last night as if they might vanish at any moment. The good, the bad—all of it. I hid my face in my pillow as I remembered the way Donovan had looked at my body, the way he'd touched me. Then, my underwear in Ciar's trunk. His face as I flung them at him.

And my answer to Donovan's question: Tell me what you're feeling.

Humiliated. I hate you.

But I remembered it all, and I didn't want to forget.

Would you let me try to change your mind?

Had he changed my mind?

"No." I sat up as my own voice echoed in the empty room. The hair clip stared back at me from the bedside table, judging me. "No, of course not."

Throwing back the covers, I skittered to the kitchen. I was already reaching for the upside-down stack of gray-eyed, blond-haired women on the table before I realized it was gone.

They were gone.

Behind me, my bedroom door slammed, its force rattling the rest of the thin walls. A pot on the stove let out a faint, hollow pinging sound.

Not again. My heart leapt into my throat. A sane person would have run outside screaming, hoping the FBI was staking out the end of the driveway.

But if the FBI was watching, what were the chances someone had actually made it inside?

I swallowed and took one step toward the bedroom. Then another, and another. I leapt the last few feet, seizing the knob and throwing the door open like the leader of a SWAT team.

Nothing. Just the window that I'd opened last night, its curtains fluttering harmlessly on either side and the screen still on the floor beside it, waiting for me to put it back.

I almost folded my legs and sat down right there in the doorway. There was always nothing. Behind every door, at the end of every relationship I tried to keep. Nothing. Just a void to match the one in my soul, the one that Tilda helped me fill.

I'd been so happy that she hadn't last night, but who was I kidding? I needed her.

Robotically, I picked up my phone. My fingers knew Mark's number, no matter how many times I willed them to forget it. No matter how many times I deleted it from my contacts, they always found a way to sneak it back in. And they snuck it onto my dial pad now, even though I already knew what I'd hear on the other end.

Four dial tones, and then nothing.

Nothing.

Then, a soft tap.

I grabbed the phone with both hands, holding onto it like a lifeline as I mashed it closer to my ear. "Hello?" I said, my voice echoing in the silence.

No answer. "Hello!" I shouted, not caring that the volume scraped hoarsely against my throat.

Another soft tap. "Maisye?"

I pulled the phone away from my head and stared at the screen. The call had already disconnected, but the muffled taps had turned into full-on raps.

"Maisye, open up!"

My shoulders sagged, and I let myself stand there for a moment, pretending I hadn't just mistaken Clarissa at my door for my ex finally picking up the phone.

When she started banging again, I sighed and plastered on my most stoic facade, completely forgetting until I'd opened the door that I probably had horrible bedhead.