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“He’s in jail, and I’m not bailing him out, that’s for damn sure,” Ricky says. “I thought you should know just in case he tries to get in touch with you somehow or if the cops call you about the whole thing.” Why would the cops call me?

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say. It is the first time I’ve said “thanks” to Ricky in at least ten years. The word burns my tongue.

After I hang up I stare at David in disbelief. When I repeat the entire conversation, he seems completely unruffled. I thought he might be upset that Ricky called me. And that I answered the phone.

“How do you feel about all that?” he says.

“I feel confused as fucking hell. This is so messed up. I thought Evan had cleaned himself up. I mean, he used to be a great kid. I know Michael is responsible for changing that, but, Jesus, I can’t believe that Evan would be capable of something like
this
. Michael must have really fucked him over.”

I am quiet for a minute, and David starts rubbing my shoulders as I sit down on the edge of my bed.

“It might make me seem like a bad person, but, in a way, I don’t really care about why it happened,” I continue. “The bottom line is that Michael is gone, and I can’t help feeling happy as shit about that. I do feel bad, though, that it came to this for Evan, you know? Shit must have been really bad for him.” I decide not to think about this anymore. I tell myself that I don’t care what happens to Evan. If he did this, he deserves whatever he gets. I’m not putting any more energy into thinking about it. None.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Lucia

I am standing on this bridge listening to David’s fists smack against Robbie’s body. It isn’t even a fair fight. David is beyond pissed off, and he is beating the living daylights out of Robbie. I want to run away. But if I do, Robbie will never forgive me, and David will hunt me down. Robbie is on the ground now, and David is straddling him, punching his face over and over. It is a mashed-up, bloody mess. I hear Robbie’s breath gurgling and watch his hands move up to try to block David’s fists. My own hands are on David’s backpack, trying desperately to pull him away. I am screaming for him to cut it the fuck out, but it’s fruitless because he’s far stronger than I am. This is the first time I have ever seen David lose control.

David found out about me and Robbie yesterday evening. I was supposed to meet David at his apartment before my photography class, but Robbie stopped me on my way up the stairs and invited me to come to his place first. He lives two floors below David.

The trouble is that sex with Robbie is hard to resist. I’ve been fucking him for months now—for nearly as long as I have been seeing David. Robbie doesn’t want a relationship; he just wants to screw. But David, he wants more than sex. I think he wants love. I’ve tried to tell him that love is never going to come from me because I’m not interested in all the bullshit that goes with it. David never seems to hear me when I tell him that love is for pussies.

Robbie and I were in his living room. He had me bent over the back of his couch when David opened the door. I must have been too loud. The look on David’s face was pretty damned crazy. I thought for a second that he was going to come in and beat us both to a bloody pulp right then and there. But instead, he shut the door and walked out of the building. It was a display of godlike self-control, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, even from him. When Robbie finished, we both went over to the window and saw that David’s car was gone. We knew that we were going to suffer for David’s humiliation. I just never thought Robbie would suffer quite like this.

David and I met six months ago at one of my photography shows. He was building a display unit for someone who was exhibiting in the same gallery. My work is a bit unconventional, and I guess that’s what inspired David to approach me that day. I was securing one of the frames to the wall when he asked me what type of weapon was in the picture. I knew from his question that he didn’t know jack about guns. Who doesn’t recognize a Colt Python .357 Magnum when they see one? He asked me if it was a .38 Special, and I nearly laughed at him. We spent the rest of the evening looking at my pictures and talking about the guns and how I staged the shots. David said his favorite was the image of my antique blunderbuss pistol resting in a pile of colorful smart phones.

When the show was finally set-up, David took me out for coffee, and I told him about how my entire childhood revolved around my father and his gun collection. My mother left us soon after I was born, and when I was nineteen, my father died because a semiautomatic rifle slam fired as his friend was loading the chamber and my dad was setting the target. It never should have happened. And now I have all of my father’s guns but not my father. He raised me to be respectful of his weapons and to appreciate their beauty. When I decided to become a photographer, I knew exactly what my subject would be.

From the day we met, David was flirtatious and funny. When I wasn’t talking about my work, we were swapping stories about past jobs and our childhoods. David was the one who introduced me to Robbie a week or so after we met. Robbie likes guns, too, and David brought him to the show to see my work. Two weeks later, Robbie and I shared our first fuck in the bathroom of his apartment. He was having a party, and David and I were invited. One thing led to another, and while David was outside smoking a cigarette, Robbie was lifting me up on to his sink and sticking his dick into me. It became a game for us. We would find a time and a place for a quick screw, and then I would go back to being David’s sort-of girlfriend.

I taught David how to shoot, and I even gave him his first gun. He taught me how to make my own picture frames and how to use a laser level to set up my shows. We were good together, yes, but it was clear that we were not good enough. Somehow it always seemed as if he was unsatisfied. As if he was always holding himself in. We were going through the motions of being together without ever truly connecting. But, like I said, love is for pussies. It was never going to happen.

Robbie called me a few hours ago to tell me that David showed up at his apartment this morning. He used his maintenance key to let himself in, and then he proceeded to calmly wreak havoc on the apartment. David didn’t lay a hand on Robbie or even speak to him, but he did rip the kitchen cupboards off their hinges and smash some of the merchandise Robbie was stowing. Then he told Robbie that he had one day to clear out his shit and leave town because Carl was evicting him. Robbie’s been selling stolen electronics out of the apartment for the past seven months, and David’s known about it since he came to fix the water heater one day and saw a bunch of car stereos and at least a dozen laptops on the floor.

David’s no dumbass. When he saw Robbie fucking me, he must have gone straight to Carl to tell him about Robbie’s little sales operation.

After Robbie’s phone call, I texted David and told him that we needed to talk. He told me to meet him here, on this bridge, at eleven o’clock sharp. I was supposed to come alone, but after hearing about what David did this morning, there was no way I was coming here by myself. Robbie said he would come with me, but he agreed to stay out of sight unless there was a problem. And now, Robbie is on the ground in a pool of his own blood. He came running when he saw David grab my arms and pull them behind me. Robbie swung the first punch—it was the only one that he landed.

Robbie is motionless now, and I look down at him, wondering if he is still alive. David is sitting on top of his body, and when he looks up at me, I can see the anger searing through him. It is unbelievable—I can
feel
how angry David is. I can feel the King of Control utterly losing his shit. Because of me.

He stands and kicks Robbie’s side hard, and Robbie lets out a small cough. Then David is nose-to-nose with me, asking me in a quiet, malicious tone exactly how long I have been screwing Robbie. I tell him it doesn’t matter. It was just fucking. It didn’t mean anything. The look on David’s face tells me that I had better say what he wants to hear. That self-preservation is a must if I plan to walk away from this. Lies may be the only thing that will save me.

I tell David I love him—which I don’t. And that I am sorry—which I’m not. And that what happened with Robbie was just a one-time thing—which, clearly, it wasn’t. Lies, lies, lies. As I am spitting out the words I think he wants to hear, David smiles at me. I think my lies are working. I think I might actually walk away from this. But then David leans down and puts his face right up to mine. He asks me if I think he is a fucking idiot. He knows I don’t love him, and he knows I’m not sorry.

I can feel the anger shooting through his body again. His hands grasp my shoulders tightly, and his breath deepens. His face is infused with fury, and this time it is aimed at me. I don’t move because I think that if I do, my body will wind up on the ground right next to Robbie’s. I’m going to have to find a way out of this. I wish I had one of my father’s guns.

I quietly ask David what he wants me to say. “Don’t fucking
say
anything,” he whispers to me. “Just do what I tell you to do.” He takes his hands off my shoulders and tells me to turn around and look at what I made him do. Look at the bloody mess
I
turned Robbie into.

When I turn around, I see Robbie lying on the ground behind me. His head rolls to the side, and he exhales another little blood-soaked cough. Then I hear David’s heavy breaths and his backpack sliding down off his body. I should run. I should leap over Robbie and run like hell. But I can’t. I can only look down and silently beg his now unconscious body to keep breathing.

I squat down and touch Robbie’s face. It is hot and slick with blood. I look at his closed eyes and consider moving my palm over to his mouth, to confirm that he’s breathing. But David grabs hold of both my wrists and drags them behind me. The force of it knocks me forward, and my cheek pushes against Robbie’s chest. David’s knee is on my back, and he wraps something around my wrists, tying them together. When he pulls me back up to standing, I can feel the blood from Robbie’s shirt trickling down my face. I can taste it on my lips. It is the taste of my own guilt.

David pushes me over to the side of the bridge so that my toes are up against the edge, just beneath the knee-high guardrail. He has a hold of my upper arms, and as I look down through the dark at the water below me, David lets me go and bends over. I think for a second that he is going to pick something up, but then I feel his backpack on top of my feet. It is heavy, and a few seconds later, he has secured a strap to each of my ankles with a zip tie. What is happening? I think again that I should be running away. That I should be kicking and fighting him. But by the time my fear sets in, it’s too late.

David stands back up and whispers into my ear that he is going to push me off this goddamned bridge.

“Don’t,” I tell him. “Don’t do this. Let’s just walk away from this. I will go, and I won’t come back. You’ll never see me again, and Robbie, he’ll go, too. I promise, David. I promise.”

He is smiling at me now, looking both smug and justified. He’s taken charge of the moment, just like he always does. He moves behind me, and then his hands are flat against my back. I feel him push me forward, and my upper body tips over the guardrail. As I fall forward, his hands slide down my legs and lift my heavy feet, flipping them over the railing with force and causing me to tumble over the edge. The wind sings in my ears and when I hit the water, I think about Robbie and I feel ashamed.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Emma—Present Day

When I wake up Sunday morning David is not in my bed. I sit up and listen for movement in the bathroom, but it is quiet. I roll a T-shirt down over my head, being careful not to brush it against the raw skin of my back, and walk down the hallway to look for him. The bathroom is empty, the sofa is vacant, and there is nothing in the kitchen, save for dirty dishes in the sink. There is no note on the table either. I pick up my cell phone to send David a message. When I flip it open, I see that there is one waiting for me from about an hour ago.

Hi.

Hi back.

Did u sleep well?

Yes. Where r u?

I had to go out. B back by lunchtime.

Everything ok?

Yes. Wait for me to shower. I can do your back.

Ok. Should I b worried?

About what?

IDK, u tell me.

No worries. Just had some shit to do.

R u at church or something?

Very, very funny. My sins r too big for that place.

So r your secrets, apparently.

One and the same.

Okaaaay then...b safe.

Will do.

I grumble to myself, flip the phone closed, and walk out to the kitchen to make some coffee.

* * *

David opens the door to my apartment at precisely 12:25. I am in the kitchen making us a couple of sandwiches when I hear his car keys hit the surface of the table. He walks around the corner into the kitchen just as I am about to walk out with the sandwich plates in my hands. His hair is a mess, and he is wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday. Wherever he went, it sure as hell couldn’t have been that important. He looks like he just rolled out of bed.

“Hey,” he says, stopping just short of walking into me. “How’s your back?”

“A little sore, but pretty good, all things considered,” I say. I put the plates down on the table and turn to face him. “Lunch is ready. I made us some sandwiches. Hope that’s all right.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, walking toward me. His arms stretch around my neck and rest on the top of my shoulders as his lips graze my forehead in a small kiss. “And so are you.” I have the sudden feeling that he was up to no good this morning, and he’s trying to cover his ass.

“
That
I am not,” I say with a small smile. “But you can say it again if you want. Especially if it makes you feel better about whatever you were doing this morning.”

He chuckles a little, and I feel his head moving from side to side as his chin rests on the top of my head. “I didn’t say it because of what I was doing this morning. I said it because I meant it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one that’s ever considered me perfect, that’s for sure.”

“I better be,” he says, dropping his arms and looking at my face. He is wearing a small smirk, and when I see it, I know for certain that he was up to no good this morning. I sit down, biting into my sandwich with a smirk of my own.

“So, you aren’t going to tell me what you were doing, then?” I ask.

“No,” he says, still grinning. “But I will tell you that I won’t be doing it again. That’s for sure.”

“Okay, now that’s just mean. Don’t say shit like that if you aren’t going to finish the story.”

“Someday I will,” he says. “But not today.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and keeps his eyes down on his plate.

“That’s not fair,” I fire back. I’m starting to feel a little peeved about his secrecy, and my voice is exposing me. It sounds stiff and dramatic.

Oh, he is looking really smug now, and I’m frustrated as hell. Fine. If he wants to keep a secret, then I’m playing him for all he’s worth.

“So, David, how did it feel to beat a man to within an inch of his life?” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, David’s eyes pop up to meet mine. I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips, exuding as much sass as I can muster. He looks surprised at the forwardness of my question.

“Why do you ask?” he says, sounding a little bemused.

“Because if you won’t tell me about your present sins, I’m going to ask about your past ones.” His face changes when he recognizes my game. His expression reeks of revelry and sarcasm. He is mocking me.

“I think I can handle that,” he says tartly.

“Well, then, how did it feel?” I ask again; the bitterness in my tone hangs between us. He pauses for a second before he answers.

“It felt incredibly shitty.” Oh. That isn’t the answer I was expecting. I thought he would have felt happy kicking the pants off the man who was fucking his girlfriend. Damn it. “It felt absolutely terrifying to be so out of control. The day after I found them together, I lost it. I came in here and let loose on the apartment. I wrecked the damn kitchen, and then later that night, I wrecked him. Lucia was so fucking scared of me. I haven’t seen her since. Afterwards, I peeled Robbie up off the damn pavement and took him to the hospital. I dropped him off there, and the day after they let him out, I put his shit on the sidewalk and Carl evicted him. He was not a good guy, but still, it felt like a fucking nightmare.” Jesus H. Christ. That is crazy.

“No one lived here after him? Until me, I mean,” I say, feeling slightly chastised.

“Right. I wanted to fix that freggin’ kitchen for over a year, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then I saw you hauling boxes in here, and you were so fucking cute. I felt so damn guilty about you moving in here with a ruined kitchen that I had to fix it. I had to make it better.” He lifts his sandwich to his mouth, and just before he takes another bite, he adds, “Turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.” David gives me a suggestive wink, and I know that the conversation hasn’t pissed him off. I am jumping in.

“Carl has no idea you fixed my kitchen, does he?”

“I ended up telling him about it the night you got sloshed at the poker game. But I just told him I fixed your cupboards. I didn’t tell him about anything else. He wanted to know how we hooked up.”

“Oh.” I finish my sandwich and roll over the long list of questions that are now in my head. When I talk again, I am thankful that the bitterness is gone from my voice. “So, was Lucia the one that bought you the gun and taught you how to shoot?” I ask, hoping to hell he won’t say that it was Anna instead.

“Yes,” he says briskly. I don’t think he wants me to ask any more questions, but I can’t stop myself.

“And was she one of the women that you were referencing the other night? One of the women that became a big part of who you are?”

“Of course,” he says wryly. “You can’t almost kill a man over a woman and walk away from it without your life changing somehow. I told you that’s what all that so-called ape shit stuff was about. I temporarily lost it.” He doesn’t sound angry or even perturbed. He is calm and composed—and somehow dazzling.

“Was the tattoo artist one of them, too? Who was she?”

He hesitates for a few seconds before he offers an answer. “Her name was Jenny, and you already know that she was a junkie.” Wait. It wasn’t Anna who created David’s birds? There was another woman. David lost two different women to death. Even if he doesn’t feel it himself, I feel sad for all three of them.

“How did she die?” I ask quietly, nervous about waking the dead.

“Her dealer went psycho.” David is so straightforward about it. So matter-of-fact. “But, like I said, as a couple, we were over months before it happened.”

“And how is she a part of you now? I mean aside from the obvious. Aside from that little hummingbird on your arm.” I brush the small bird with my fingertips. David stills. The space between us crackles.

“I will
never
lose myself like she did.” He says it with resignation. And an incredible amount of confidence.

“Oh,” I say. Right then, I make the decision to never bring up Anna Spaight. I will
never
ask him about her. I don’t want to listen to him tell me about her suicide. I don’t want to know about how she influenced his life. I don’t want to know about all the ways that she shaped him. And I don’t want to know if David loved her. I want to stay ignorant about the whole damn thing. Even though it is too late for that.

“Okay,” I add, dropping my chin to my chest. “I want to take a shower now.”

“Are you freaked out?” he asks as he stands up and picks up our plates.

“A little,” I say, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was judging you in some way by bringing up the whole Lucia thing like I did. I didn’t mean to make a game out of something so serious.” Those are the words I say out loud, but inside I am choking on my own thoughts. On thoughts of David having to witness the deaths of two women who were such important parts of his life.

“I know,” he says as I stand and follow him into the kitchen, “and I don’t ever feel like you are judging me. That’s one of my favorite things about you. You never make me feel different.” His words stop me in my tracks. That’s it. I haven’t really been able to figure out why I am in love with David, but he just said the precise words that my mind has been searching for. I love him because he never makes me feel different.

I turn him around to face me. He touches my face and plants a knowing kiss on my lips. Once again we are two of the same.

In the shower David washes my back with a soapy washcloth. He rubs it around carefully, and I watch the small flecks of excess ink and skin spin around in the eddy and then drop down into the drain. He washes my hair and my body, and before I know it, I am pinned against the shower wall with my legs wrapped around his waist, my mind and body simmering with adulation. With love. His lips grind into mine, and my fingers scatter through his wet hair. His mouth feels cool compared to the hot water, and when his lips leave mine and sink into my neck, I roll my head back against the shower wall. David reaches down to turn off the water and then he sets me down on the mat outside the tub. He dries us both with a towel, peppering me with soft kisses between swipes of the terry cloth.

When I am dry, David stands sweet and motionless in front of me, brushing my cheek softly. He looks tired. But I think I see something else, too. Confusion. And maybe worry. I wonder why.

* * *

An hour or so after our shower, I reach into my closet to drag out the boxes from Michael. After a brief chat with David, I decide that I need to get them the hell out of here so I have no trace of Michael left in my life. David says that he thinks it’s a great idea, and he’s happy to toss them straight into the Dumpster without a second glance. But I tell him that I need to check them out first. I need to know if there is anything important packed inside. If Michael kept my father’s dog tags, who knows what else he held on to?

David puts his iPhone into the dock, and the loose and melodic sounds of The Kooks fill the room. He sits down cross-legged on my bed and fiddles with the scissors he just used to cut the tape from the cardboard.

The first box I delve into is the one that contained the picture of my mother and me at the family reunion. As I open the flaps, I can’t help but glance over at the photograph sitting on my bedside table and remember how I felt that day. How my mother and father looked and how proud I was to call that man my daddy. David is sitting there, watching me carefully, no doubt ready to scoop me up off the floor if that motherfucker Michael messes with my emotions again. I know, though, that there is not a single thing in these boxes that is going to rocket me off an emotional cliff. I know that I won’t wind up sobbing on the floor. And I know this because now that Michael is gone, the only emotions these boxes can hold are good ones. The only memories they can dredge up now are the ones that
I
want to remember. The things that
I
decide to feel and recount.
Not
the thoughts and ideas that Michael forces on me.

As I dig through the box, I find that it is indeed filled with positive memories. Books I read in high school—
To Kill a Mockingbird
,
A
Tree Grows in Brooklyn
,
The Count of Monte Cristo.
CDs I left behind when I went to college. Dried-up bottles of nail polish. I lay them all out on my bed next to David. He laughs at the obnoxious colors. Once again, I tell him to “fuck off” and remind him that I was a hot number in high school. He smirks at me and tells me that I still am. I kiss him on the cheek, and I think I see him blush.

The second box is filled with volleyball ribbons and trophies. When I put them on the bed, David picks a few of them up, rolling them around in his hands and smirking. He is suddenly filled with questions about what position I played, if I played any other sports, why I didn’t play in college. It is a great conversation, filled with a delightful energy and rife with hints of David’s appreciation for “sporty girls.” One of my old balls is tucked into the bottom of the box, and even though it is half deflated, we spend a bit of time playfully hitting the ball back and forth over the bed. David is on his feet now, obviously feeling more comfortable with what is in the boxes. He helps me empty the third one.

Amongst a few more books and knickknacks, I find two photo albums. One is of my family when I was young. I show David the pictures of my mother and brothers first. They were taken before I was even born. He says my brothers look like a couple of little nerds. I smile and tell him again that they were sweet kids when they were young. My father is in a few of the photographs as well, though he was probably behind the camera for most of them. He is sinewy with light hair, and in my favorite photograph, his arm is draped around my mother’s shoulders and I am standing at his feet. I must only be about two years old. My hair is pulled back in a barrette, and my smile is as wide as the ocean. It fills up my entire face. David picks up the photo album and holds it close to his face, examining me carefully and noting how much I looked like my mother even then. He says that my mother was beautiful, and he can see how bad my father had it for her by the way they are touching in some of the pictures. He winks at me when he says it, and it makes my insides smile.

The other photo album is smaller and consists of pictures that were taken after my father died. It is filled with images of my brothers playing high school football. I know that our babysitter, Carol, took most of these pictures because Michael and my mother seldom made it to the games. There are images of both Ricky’s and Evan’s college graduations; in them Michael is smiling like a motherfucker, no doubt happy that tuition payments were over for a few years. Come to think of it, Michael only ended up paying for one semester of my college tuition, so, by all rights, he should have looked even happier than he did. There are also a handful of pictures of me in the album. A few from volleyball games, a team photograph from the eleventh grade, and a half-dozen pictures taken before my senior prom. When David asks me about it, I tell him all about Peter Beckman, about how he was the only non-shitty-ass boyfriend I ever had. Until now, anyway. And then I tell him how Michael ended it. David does not look a bit surprised when I tell him about prom night.