Instead, I lift his legs and tuck him into bed.
“Good night, Detective.”
“Who’s Paul?”
“I didn’t say Paul.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Good night, Detective.”
I put him to bed. Then I take up watch in front of the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer out. But no gold-chained gangster is staring up at me.
“I’m going to learn your secrets,” my guest says sleepily.
“Shhh...”
I let the detective sleep. Then I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my window, and think of Livia Samdi, and Angelique Badeau, and what it means to be a teenage girl. The mistakes we all make. The moments we’ll never get back again.
Then, I do say his name. “Paul.”
And I smell blood and I feel pain and I let it wash over me, the price of my sins.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I’m not talking to Paul anymore. I’m talking to Livia Samdi, and all the girls like her.
Then I pray, as hard as I’ve ever prayed, for Angelique Badeau. For us to find her in time. For her to be out there, still alive, still okay.
For her to please, please, please, come home again.