The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,72

part wants to scream until my voice is gone. Until I’m gone.

I fist my hands, remembering the gritty feel of dirt beneath my nails.

Blood on my hands. Dirt beneath my nails.

“Maybe you should recommend another doctor.”

“What?” I say.

“For your patient. Maybe she should see another doc.” He shoves his shirt-sleeves up, revealing a scratch on his right forearm, the scab fresh.

“It’s fine.”

“But if it’s bringing up all these old memories, which are obviously unpleasant, it isn’t fine. Would it be the end of the world if you sent her to someone else? What about Christine, the other doctor in your office? She sees kids too, right?”

“It’s Christina, and no, that’s not necessary. I’m an adult; I can handle a few old memories.”

There’s a long silence, then he says, “Can you?”

“Who’s the doctor here?” I say, and my words are razors. “Pretty sure I know what I can and can’t handle.”

His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “Right. Okay. But since you brought it up, I thought you wanted to talk about it, maybe try and get some things off your chest.”

“Well, you thought wrong. I don’t want to talk about it.”

And I don’t. Not to him. Not to anyone.

“Are you sure? Because I’m here, and if I can help you in any—”

“Stop,” I say. “Just stop and leave it. I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

But he steals a glance toward me, and I sense he’s going to try again. Just like him to think a fucking battering ram is the best way to tackle any problem.

“What happened to your arm? The scratch?” I ask.

He looks down. “Oh, I probably banged into the corner of some drywall or something.”

“Has she paid you anything yet?”

“No, not yet,” he says. “Look, this won’t be like the Kanes. Mrs. Harding’s not hurting for money.”

I run my thumbs down an imaginary line in the center of my thighs. “How do you know? The Kanes didn’t seem to be either. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“Nothing,” he says. “No matter what I say, it won’t matter.”

Anger boils inside me, anger at myself for turning the conversation this way, for picking an argument, for the outstanding check, for being stuck in this fucking car with the fucking traffic. An apology lingers on my tongue, but it’s bitter and sharp and I keep it to myself.

* * *

Ringing yanks me from sleep, and I fumble for my phone. It’s not mine, though, but Ryan’s. A local number, no name. When it stops, there’s a long pause, then a chirp. I flop back on my pillow, wide awake now. Ryan’s going to help his youngest brother install some shelving, but I was planning to sleep in.

I did end up apologizing before we got home yesterday, and he accepted, but both were contrived. The sort of things you say because you should. All I had to do was bridge the gap, one small touch on his shoulder or the center of his back in bed, but I rolled onto my side, staring at the wall until long after he was asleep.

Now, the shower in the master bath shuts off, and a minute later Ryan steps out amid a wave of eucalyptus-scented heat, a towel draping his waist.

“You’re awake,” he says with a mix of surprise and hesitation.

“Your phone woke me up. Somebody called you.”

“I’m sorry.” When he looks at the display, he blinks a little too quickly and says, “Don’t recognize the number. Probably a scammer.”

A legit assumption. I get regular calls from the “IRS” claiming there’s a tax bill and an arrest warrant. “They left a message,” I say around a yawn, rearranging the sheets to cover my shoulder.

I listen to him finish getting ready and walk down the steps, trying to be quiet. When the garage door rumbles down and his engine recedes, I throw off the sheets, pushing sleep-twisted hair from my face.

He recognized the number on his phone. I saw it. I knuckle a cheekbone. I know my heightened suspicion is due to my own perfidy. Transference in psych speak. Finding fault with him to avoid my own.

Not bothering with a shower, I pull on leggings and an old, stretched-out sweater. Make coffee. Flop on the sofa in the family room, ankles crossed, foot tapping, flipping through television channels but finding nothing to capture my attention. I toss the remote aside and Lady Macbeth my hands. I need to do something other than sit and brood. Or I might have