Page 3 of SINS & Riley
“Once upon a time… as in two months ago, there lived a girl. A girl who never asked for much. A strong cup of coffee. A thick book. And, in her deepest, darkest desires…to not get effed over by the universe every other day.”
I smooth a hand over the flat plane of my belly as I speak, and try not to obsess on the little plus sign of the fifth pregnancy test I took this morning.
“Life lesson number one,” I say to the little one rooting in my body. “When a nutjob with a knife fetish asks for a kiss… run.”
Annoyed, I blow out a breath.
“Why do they have a plus sign at all? You know what they need? A middle finger emoji. That’s what they need.”
My fingers skim the letters etched in stone.
Dante
“It’s pretty,” I say to no one. Flowery curls and fancy loops wrap around the cold, ruthless name D'Angelo. “It’s much too pretty to bleed all over.”
Not that I could. The marble is too cold and smooth to accidentally nick myself on.
A sound cracks the stillness. I freeze, head snapping to the side as I strain to listen.
No one ever comes here. Not anymore.
But in my head I can almost see it. A grieving parishioner, wandering the halls, desperate for a bathroom.
And I hear Dante’s ghostly growl, sharp-edged and annoyed: “It’s my mausoleum, not a goddamn outhouse.”
Silence settles back like dust.
Then I do what I always do.
I lay a fresh rose at the heart of the cold stone. “Zver used to leave peonies,” I murmur. “Then he caught me sniffing a fat red rose in the garden, and now it’s nothing but roses. I haven’t seen him in two months, and still…”
My fingertips skim the mountain of roses stacked high against the stone. Every shade of red bleeds together. Fresh, bright scarlets deepen to crimson. Bruised maroon collapsing into brittle blacks.
They’re too beautiful to throw away. So I keep shoving them aside, carving space for the next offering. “At least roses die beautifully.”
They’ve become Zver’s calling card. His reminder that he’s always around. Cameras in every room. His scent curling through the air while I sleep. And in the morning, roses. Freshly cut.
A thorn pricks my finger. A tiny, hot sting. I suck the spot without thinking.
“I wish you’d clue me in,” I mutter under my breath, irritation souring into unease. “Am I just some vintage Barbie he plans to keep untouched in the box… or is this the calm before the storm?”
More stupid silence.
I find that if you force enough casualness into a conversation, having discussions with a ghost seems totally normal.
Almost as normal as my weird obsession with gravestones. “Three days ago, I found one newer than the rest.” I shake my head, half a laugh. “Tombstone tourism. Never thought that would be my kink, but here we are.”
I draw a breath. For a ghost, Dante’s turned into one hell of a therapist.
“Nothing ornate,” I murmur. “No marble angels. No grand carvings. Just a massive stone marker, half-buried in the dirt.” My tone softens. “Dream Team. Do you think it’s a regiment. A band of brothers. It’s become my guiding light. I know I’m not lost when I see that same curling e.”
My finger loops the e again and again.
“It’s probably why Zver lets me come here. I’ve walked an hour in every direction. There’s nowhere to go but in the ground.”
A bitter laugh slips from my lips.
I hate talking to myself like a lunatic. And still, I keep at it.
