Page 14 of Trail of Betrayal
She backs away, suddenly small, gathering her ruined blouse around herself as if it might make her invisible.
“I’m done,” she says, trying for dignity but hitting only brittle. “I’m leaving him. Just stop all this.”
I step aside, open the door for her. “Don’t forget your purse,” I say. “You might need it.”
She grabs the bag, and for a heartbeat her hand brushes mine. There’s electricity in the touch, a pulse of mutual recognition—two predators, one meal.
I watch her go, heels echoing on marble, and wait until the door closes before I turn to the mirror. The woman staring back is immaculate, but her eyes are wild.
I run cold water over my hands until the shaking stops. Then I dry them, smooth my hair, and walk out into the dining room as if nothing at all has happened.
When I return to the table, the temperature has dropped ten degrees. Elise is mid-monologue, charming the wine out of a waiter’s hand, while Lawrence sits propped upright, spine so stiff you could hang a blazer on him. He glances up as I slide into my seat, and his smile has that disaster-shock edge—the kind people wear after a car crash or a particularly bad review.
Elise meets my eyes over the rim of her glass and gives me a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Isabella follows close behind. Her blouse is rebuttoned to the throat, but the wine stain has metastasized, creeping from heart to sleeve in an ugly, living bruise. She’s redone her lipstick, but nothing covers the wet, raw places under her eyes. She takes her seat without a word, fingers lacing tight under the table, and looks anywhere but at me.
“So,” Lawrence says, eyes darting between me and Isabella, “did I miss anything interesting?”
“Not a thing,” I say, letting the syllables settle like silt. “We just talked about stains. And how hard they are to get out.”
Elise snorts, and even Isabella makes a sound, a kind of reverse laugh that might as well be a sob.
The waiter returns with dessert menus, blissfully unaware of the carnage. He offers us a selection, gâteau, something with yuzu, a cheese plate, and I watch each name land like a punch to the gut. Nobody orders anything. Elise requests espresso for the table, and the waiter leaves.
Lawrence tries again, his voice forced and casual. “This was fun. I’m glad we all got together. We should, do it again sometime.”
“Absolutely,” Elise says without missing a beat. “Next time, let’s aim for more drama. Or at least a murder-mystery theme.”
He laughs, too loud, then stops when he realizes nobody else is playing.
Isabella stares at her hands, knuckles gone white. “I think I should get going,” she says, her voice so small it almost disappears.
Elise looks at me, then at Lawrence. “Are you going to walk her out, or should I?”
He blinks, not comprehending at first. “Oh. Uh, I can,” He pushes his chair back and stands a little too quickly, sending a tremor through the table. “I’ll do it.”
Isabella gathers her purse and keeps her head down. As they step away, I catch the way Lawrence glances over his shoulder at me, eyes pleading for something, absolution, maybe, or at least a stay of execution. I give him nothing but a gentle smile and a tilt of my head.
They disappear toward the exit, leaving just me and Elise, and the long, beautiful ruin of what used to be my life.
For a minute, neither of us speaks. The espresso arrives: a clutch of little white cups, and the waiter makes a fast, discreet retreat. Elise doctors hers with sugar, stirs, and says, “You really did it, didn’t you?”
I shrug, stare at the swirl of crema. “It was never about them. Not really.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Then what?”
I watch the reflection of the restaurant in the coffee, everything warped, doubled, slightly off-axis. “It’s about knowing what you’re capable of, and then doing it.”
Elise grins. “Well. Here’s to capability.” She drinks.
I drink too; the bitterness is clean and cold. When the cup is empty, I set it down and reach for my coat.
Outside, the city is humming with late-night possibility. I don’t see Lawrence and Isabella at the curb; maybe they’vedissolved into the night, or maybe they’re already in a car, plotting their next move. I hope it’s the former.
Elise joins me, shrugging her bag over her shoulder. “Do you need a ride?”
I shake my head. “I’ll walk.”
