Page 34 of Shattered
“Does Vantage have a history of domestic abuse?”
“Charges were dropped,” he said.
I raised a brow. “So there was abuse, but nothing that his wife wanted to press charges for.”
He tilted his chin. “You seem to know a lot more than you let on.”
“It’s a lucky guess.”
“But that doesn’t give anyone the right to murder someone.”
And this was why Rourke was enraged at the system. Why not take care of it himself? Detective Foreman dusted the hair out of his eyes and bent down to his notepad again. “Where were you, not last Monday, but the Monday before?”
I looked around the house. I needed to move out of here. Not that I was avoiding the cops, but this association with Colin made it seem like I was going crazy. Being drowned in his case. But I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to risk losing Rourke. This house was our only connection.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably working.”
“I checked the records at the Dahlia District. You weren’t working that night.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was hard for me to keep track of these last few weeks. So much had happened, and I rarely had the chance to process it.
“If you weren’t at work, where were you?” he continued.
“Here, I guess.”
“Can anyone vouch that you were here all night?”
If that night was when I thought it was, Rourke had visited me. How was that for an alibi?I didn’t kill him, but the man who probably did kill him can vouch that I was here.
“No,” I said.
“There’s nothing you can tell me about that night?”
“No. I was here.” I glanced at my phone. “I’ve got to get ready for work. I’m sure you can verify that with Dahlia.”
“Right, Ms. Foley,” he said. He stood. “I’ll be on my way. But we may have to bring you in for questioning soon.”
Bring me into the station? My cheeks flared red. “Am I a suspect?” I asked. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“That’s up to you.”
From my bedroom window, I watched him drive away. This wasn’t good. If Detective Foreman wanted to question me to that extent, I was in trouble, authenticity and truth be damned.
But I couldn’t think about that right now. I had to get ready for work. I was supposed to paint myself into a glow in the dark mural of the ocean floor, which meant getting there as early as possible. I grabbed my suitcase and commuted there quickly. But instead of doing what Dahlia had requested, I painted my limbs like the muscles that were there underneath, making it look like I was only flesh. Only human.
By the time I was out on the floor, I was almost disappointed that Garrett wasn’t there to ruin the body paint, or to witness the few club members’ reactions as they saw me perched by the bar, like a model rigged in the Body Exhibit with actual cadavers. I wished that Rourke was there to comment on this tiny act of rebellion. Doing what I wanted to do, instead of doing what others expected of me. Even if Dahlia punished me by bumping up my debt, it would be worth it to hear his comments.
He was inside of my head in every possible way. While I worked, I imagined smearing the paint over his black clothes, how the reds and pinks would smear his clothing like streaks of chalk. Even as I drove home after work, I thought of him. Rourke’s hands on my body. How he made me twitch like I had no control over myself.
I wanted to scream at him. To tell him to leave me alone. That the police thought thatIwas the one who was killing these men. That they needed someone to blame, and that I was the easiest suspect. I had no alibi, and two men I knew were dead. In my mind, I took his cold, gloved fingers in my hands, trying to squeeze some sense into them. I imagined saying,I can’t keep doing this. I need you to stop, or they won’t leave me alone.
I won’t leave you alone, he said, taking me by the throat.You will keep doing this. For me.
A car honked, bringing my attention back to the road. I swerved back into my lane. This was bad. This wassobad. Even the daydreaming about him was dangerous. And hell, my mother was right. My lifewasin danger. You could die at any moment: a car wreck, an unknown disease, a freak accident. But fucking a murderer must have made me eighteen—no, thirty-six more times more likely to die.
I showered off the excess paint residue that I hadn’t been able to get off in the Greenhouse, then laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. I had left early like many of the other servers because there was simply no one to entertain. Rourke had done that to our club. We would thrive once again, but not until after he was finished, or caught.
I imagined his hand on my throat again, the grip tightening, making me weak and lightheaded. My hand drifted down to my belly, then lower to my clit, and I rubbed myself. Then I grabbed a vinyl bodysuit out of my suitcase to use as a barrier between my fingers and my clit. I closed my eyes, pretended it was his gloves. Working me. Making me powerless. Completely ready to submit myself to him.You’ll do it for me, Melissa, he said in my mind.Kill for me. I’ll rip apart each piece of you until there’s nothing left, and you’ll beg me to do it again. Because there will be only me.
