Page 91 of Little Deaths

“Start with that one,” she said. Her voice shook. “Play the movie.”

Rafe hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, dammit.” She knocked his hand aside and pressed play, not knowing what she’d see. A snuff film? Her killer, unmasked? More cruel taunts?

Immediately, shaky footage filled the screen. Sago palm leaves obscured part of the visual field, baring only hints of an ultramarine sky. It took her a moment to recognize her own backyard. Nausea rose in her gut at the image of her dead husband. It was like seeing an actual ghost.

Marco was in the hot tub and the camera zoomed in on him, first on his face and then lingering, almost accusatorily, on the shot of scotch in his hand. The light was harsh, close to high noon. His face looked haggard and the grizzled stubble on his face was beginning to turn into a full beard, patchy with streaks of gray. Beyond him, the grapes of his vineyard glistened like clusters of topaz on the vine, not yet rotted to ruin by the sudden and unexpected rains.

“Where are you going?”

That low familiar voice, with its Italian-by-way-of-Newark accent made Donni freeze.

The camera panned to another Donni on the screen. She was wearing a Lilly Pulitzer swing dress covered in black and silver sequins. Ropes of layered necklaces were draped artfully into the low neckline and she had a black linen blazer draped over her shoulder.

I remember this, thought Donni.I was meeting with Arleme—so this must have been, what, early June?She’d gotten her hopes up, only to have them crushed once more.

“I’m meeting with my agent,” her past self said. “We’re getting coffee in Sonoma.”

Marco scoffed. “Are they giving you work?”

“No.” Past Donni, as Donni couldn’t help thinking of herself, clutched at her blazer.Oh honey, that makes you look so weak.“We’re just catching up.”

“I thought you’d put all that acting shit to bed.”

“Marco, what is your problem?” Now there was a bit of fire in her voice. “It’s just brunch.”

“My problem,” he said, sitting up in the churning water, “is that every man in town has seen you in the nude, including my own fucking son. And now you’re going and digging up the past when everything is finally laid to rest? You had your shot. Now it’s time to be a fucking wife.”

Past Donni folded her arms. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing with my life?”

Marco snorted. “What haven’t you been doing? Gallivanting around, posting pictures on the internet where anyone can see them. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“I think you get off on it, to be honest. You’ll tell all your friends about my movies when you’re drunk, like you think you’re some stud in high school who’s just bagged the cheerleader. And if I had five dollars for every time Michael Banner told me how he gets off watching me fuck myself to death with a crucifix inSatan’s Key, I could buy a solid gold one and pay a high-class stripper to rail it up his own ass and see how he likes being such a goddamnspectacle.”

Marco started to speak—she cut him off.

“You and your friends treat me like a slutty one-trick pony.Say the line, Donni. I jerked off to your film again, Donni. Did you really fuck your producer when you were only eighteen, Donni?How,” she said, her voice breaking now, “do you think that makesmefeel? Hearing people talk about my abuser like he’s just another conquest? I mean, what the fuck.”

“I never brought up Johnathan,” Marco said sharply. “Never.”

“You don’t have to. He’s in everything you don’t say. Even the way you look at me. Or don’t.”

“And there it is. A stunning performance from my wife. You can take the girl out of Hollywood, but you can’t take the Hollywood out of the girl.” The hand holding the glass trembled. “You’re just so fucking dramatic. And we don’t understand each other anymore, do we? If we ever even did. If it wasn’t just another role you tried on for the fun of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Past Donni said.

“Of course not,” Marco said. “Ignorance is bliss, after all.”

The camera followed Past Donni, walking much more angrily now, to her Honda. Too angry to drive. She’d been speeding, half-blinded by tears. It had been a miracle of miracles that she hadn’t gotten pulled over by some racist cop.

The view swung back to Marco, who had downed his scotch and was now refilling his glass. He didn’t look like a man who thought he’d won the argument.

An ominous wind rattled the palms.

If this were a horror movie, it would have been the perfect moment for the killer to jump out and slit Marco’s throat from behind. Blood would foam on the surface of the boiling water while the air was still charged with the venom from his final words.

But Marco’s death wouldn’t come until several months later.

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