Page 66 of Torment

19

Jolie

I usedto hate driving in the rain. I hated the annoying, grating sound of the wipers, and I hated the random flashes of lightning and the ominous cracks of thunder.

Today, I didn’t care. All I cared about was seeing Mason again.

I was in St. James Parish now. The road I was driving along was lined on either side by swamp waters. Ancient trees seemed to grow all the way from the dark depths of the murky water, barely peeking above the surface, but I knew it was an optical illusion. The trees were just short and the water was probably only knee deep, even with all the pouring rain. Not like the lake at Mason’s house, which was deep enough to submerge an entire room.

I bit my lip as it occurred to me how messed up my mind was. After undergoing the torture of that underwater room in the lake house, here I was, heading right back for more.

By the time I made it to the end of Mason’s driveway, the rain had died down to a slight drizzle. The air was still cold, and my arms prickled with goosebumps as I finally got out of the car and headed up the porch steps.

I knocked twice on the front door. While I waited for it to open, I rubbed my hands over my arms, trying to warm myself with the friction.

After three minutes, Mason hadn’t answered. I knocked and waited again, but there was still nothing.

It finally occurred to me that it was probably a rash decision to drive all the way out here. This wasn’t Mason’s usual residence. It was just some sort of vacation house. For all I knew, he was back in New Orleans right now, or even in New York or Chicago.

With sagging shoulders, I turned around. I was about to walk back down the steps when I heard the door open. I whirled back around to see Mason staring down at me with a heavy, probing gaze.

“Jolie,” he said gruffly. Despite the chill in the air, I was suddenly hot, and I could feel my cheeks flushing.

“Mason,” I replied. My mouth had turned dry, and I didn’t know what else to say. In all the rush and chaos of my impulsive decision to come out here, it hadn’t occurred to me to come up with a proper plan for what I wanted and needed to say to him.

He stared at me for a long time with those mesmerizing eyes. Finally, he spoke up again. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

It wasn’t the welcome I wanted, but I understood. “I know you want me to hate you,” I said, folding my arms. “But it’s not going to work.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said bluntly, averting his eyes from me. It was too late, though. I’d already seen the flash of remorse in his gaze.

“Can I come inside? It’s cold out here.”

He rubbed his neck. “Fine. But only for a minute.”

I followed him into the kitchen and stood awkwardly by the black marble counter as he made me a coffee. “Do you take sugar?” he asked, as if I were just a friend who’d randomly popped over for a chat.

“One, please.”

He nodded and stirred a teaspoon into my mug before sliding it across the counter toward me, still refusing to meet my eyes. “That should warm you up.”

“Thank you.”

He rubbed his neck again and let out a sigh. I finally noticed how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes and uneven stubble on the lower half of his face, as if he’d given up halfway through shaving several days ago. “You didn’t turn me in,” he finally said.

I took a sip of coffee before replying. “No, and I’m not going to.”

“Why?” he asked, eyes darkening. He looked angry, but I knew it wasn’t aimed at me.

“I want to ask the questions today,” I said. “You had your chance to ask whatever you wanted when you interrogated me all those times. It’s my turn now.”

There was a tiny glimmer of something in his eyes now. Pride, perhaps. I couldn’t be sure. “Fine,” he said curtly. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know if I’m right about you. When you threw me out of here a few weeks ago, you weren’t nice about it. You didn’t even say sorry for everything you did to me. Not once. Is that because you wanted me to hate you? You wanted me to turn you in?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I just didn’t want you here,” he said in the same impassive tone he used with me three weeks ago.

“Tell me the truth,” I said indignantly. “Is that why? You wanted me to hate you?”

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