When the Heart Lies - By Christina North Page 0,82
the slam of the receiver sounded undeniably harsh. If she hadn’t left Le Grand immediately after making the call, and he had waited, he’d be four hours away from Kinsley instead of less than two. He looked down at his phone and, click, scroll, click—deleted all of the messages.
~ ~ ~
In the distance, Kinsley watched the scenario—Wayde and Remy clamoring to tell one another about how they would spend their new fortune—her stoically masking her pain and abiding their belligerent ramblings, for the sake of the ruse. With each sip of her brewed retribution, their words slurred. The scene played out like a dewy slow motion film clip. Time began to dragged as the pills began to take effect, and talk became only snippets, caught between their lags in and out of consciousness.
Wayde shook his head, appearing confused. He gave it a more forceful shake, pushed his cup nearer to her, and buried his face into his hands. “I need some more coffee.”
“I’m going to lay down for a bit,” Remy said and staggered like a sloth from the table into his room.
“What?” Wayde watched Remy stumble away. Then turned to her and glared suspiciously. “What the hell is wrong with us?” He wobbled, trying to revive himself. “What’s goin’ on?” His head swayed and dropped at the chin.
She laid her hand against the side of his face as if to comfort him. “This is phase two, darlin’.”
A twinge of fear shone in his eyes. She lifted her hand from his face and returned a fast blow, slapping his head down onto the table. When she imagined this moment, she’d seen herself panicking, running from the cabin, crying hysterically, and searching for someone to rescue her. But the scene wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. She felt strong, clear, and—focused.
She checked for money in Wayde’s wallet and stuffed what little he had into her pocket. Without hesitation, she clutched the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, put it into his hand, wrapped her hands around his, and fired. She emptied the chamber into the bedroom door. The gun dropped onto the table, and she hurried into the kitchen and lit the portable Coleman stove. She grabbed the heavy iron skillet sitting next to the sink and hurled it into the boarded window directly above the cooking area. The skillet bounced down off the counter, jarred the stove, and fell to the floor with a thud.
She’d seen herself doing this several times after Remy told her Max was dead. It was just like watching a movie as she pulled the propane connection from the stove, making it appear the skillet had compromised the connection unintentionally. Moving much more rapidly, she returned to the table and picked up the pack of Marlboros. She stuffed two in her mouth and lit them. She lifted Wayde’s head, stuck one between his lips, and took a long drag on the other. The one between his lips was merely for kicks. She lit the pack and tossed the burning remains to the floor. When the pack flamed brightly, she tossed the empty carton on top and it ignited. After picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, she took a good look around. She’d learned to survive today, on her own. After exiting, she glanced back, closed the door behind her, and began to walk in the direction of the road.
For having no idea where she was, she believed she was in just the right place: the present. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been there. Years had passed her by while she lived for the future or the past, never quite being in the moment. The only emptiness in her was for Max, but the loss didn’t seem tangible. He couldn’t be dead. She would have sensed he was gone.
If she felt Max was dead, she would have stayed with Wayde and Remy and finished the damn cigarette she was choking on. She tossed the thing aside with disgust. The sweltering heat beat down on her, slowing her pace. The sweat sheathing her body was sticky with no breeze to dry it. That, combined with her empty stomach, made her light-headed. About ten minutes later, she heard the explosion; it made her still. She bent at the knees and waist, falling to the ground. Her shaky arms held her up as she puked violently. Raising her head again brought new waves of nausea, but the little content that had been