Page 53 of Only for Him
A part of me feels like I’m already back there, and that the person sitting here talking to Rosa, is nothing but a figment of my imagination.
“And what happens when she no longer has her uses anymore?”
“Meaning?”
She steps closer, and the blue light turns the scars on her face into a permanent, wolfish sneer.
“At some point, she’ll have to choose between being a detective and being whatever it is you want her to be. And when she turns on you?—”
“She won’t.”
“Says you?” Rosa scoffs.
“Says me.”
I’m furious not because of the possibility that Rosa’s right, but by the idea that Giselle could ever choose anythingotherthan me.
“Is that why you gave her back those earrings? Because youtrust her that much?”
It is and I do.
Rosa pauses for a moment. “Have you ever considered that you’re wrong about her? Have you ever considered that by giving her those earrings back, you’re helping her findyou?Find us?”
I have. But Iwanther to find me.
Frustrated by my silence, Rosa continues. “You’re risking everything we’ve been doing, Romochka. I don’t give a fuck if you fail me. Have you ever considered that there are thousands of girls out there that you’ll be failing? And for what? Some situationship with a detective that?—”
“There’s no situationship, Rosochka.” I break my silence. “And besides, I don’t kill women. That’s your job.”
Finally, Rosa’s lips curve and she throws her head back in a single mirthless bark of a laugh. “You know what I’mreallyasking, Romochka.”
I do, and I don’t have an answer for her. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure if I’ll like the answer if I ever ask it out loud. Maybe it’s because I don’t know just where all of this is supposed to end.
I’ve come to accept over the last eighteen years that there will never be a happy ending for me. That my life’s work can only end in blood and death.
When I first saw Giselle outside of the gala with her eyes turned angrily at the banner bearing MacDougal’s name, I thought that it could still be that way. Even when I first carved her name into flesh, I thought that things can still be as they are.
But is that still true?
And if it isn’t, just where does Giselle fit in it all?
I know where I’dwanther to fit. But that’s a fantasy.
A dream.
And dreams always die.
I’ve known that since I was fifteen.
On the monitors, Giselle has stopped moving, and I pretend to watch the changing image of the gate, driveway, main hall, and even the wine cellar.
I stay silent long enough that Rosa’s eyes finally soften as she studies me.
“Don’t bother.” She slides the folder over, and when she speaks, her voice is small. “I have my answer.”
Thankful that she’s no longer asking me questions about Giselle, I open the folder and scan the first few items: surveillance photos, time stamps, and the familiar sprawl of Cyrillic annotations.
All of them the same:
