Page 59 of Little Deaths

“Worried about her father,” Rafe said. “Who, apparently, is a little careless when it comes to confidentiality.”

“Oh?”

Rafe hit the unlock button on his clicker. “She overheard him talking to some crime lab on the phone. They think the dog was drugged—PCP. I looked it up on my phone just now. In lab tests, PCP induces rage and aggression in dogs. It also causes shedding and seizures.”

“That poor dog. It must have been out of its damn mind.”

“It’s not the only one. You know what this means. If your stalker has access to drugs, that means you’re dealing with someone who has connections. You don’t justknowa drug dealer. Not unless you have a network. One that isn’t exactly squeaky clean. Are you all right?”

Donnie lowered her hand from her eyes. “I’ve been seeing these flashes in the corner of my eyes. I should probably get it checked out, but I haven’t had the time. I think it’s stress.”

Rafe frowned and said nothing, but when she winced while getting into the car, he thought he caught a glimpse of a brief, yellowish-flash.I don’t think it’s your eyes, Donni, he thought.I think someone’s fucking with your pretty little head.

???????

The damage to the house looked worse in the daylight. It was as if the harsh light of the sun made everything that much more inescapable. Glass crunched under Rafe’s boots as he stalked beside her, examining the damage. His words to her in the car clanged in her head like discordant bells—you’re dealing with someone who has connections.

Someone like you?she had wondered.

It was another reminder that she couldn’t trust him. And yet, paradoxically, having him here beside her made her feel exponentially safer than she would have felt alone.

After settling Powderpuff into her bedroom and making sure that she had fresh food and water, Donni saw to her own needs. She was nearly faint from hunger and the smell of the coffee wafting from the to-go cups made her feel ravenous. With a glance at Rafe, who had settled himself on one of the bar stools, she took a pastry and one of the coffees before heading into her husband’s office.

Marco had a lot of papers. Unlike her, he kept everything and he didn’t have an apparent filing system. There were piles and piles of bills and receipts, none of which she’d been privy to. She knew he wrote his passwords down, too, though she’d never been able to figure out where. He had been a curious blend of lazy and paranoid, which, in retrospect, hadn’t boded well for their marriage.

Sighing, she looked down at the top layer of detritus, wanting to get an idea of what her husband’s last moments at this desk had been like before she started moving anything. On the righthand side was a shot glass that still smelled like whiskey. His planner was open, already two weeks old. A post-it had been stuck to it, the name “Staal” circled and underlined along with the name of a local café. Not the Morning Glory, but the Old Veranda, along with a time. 9AM.

She wondered what that was about. She’d been forced to meet most of his friends and couldn’t remember a Staal. There was another post-it—this one had a phone number. When she called it, a woman picked up and answered, “Shady Oaks Realty.” Donni hung up without speaking, staring at her husband’s cramped, messy cursive. Had he been planning on selling the house? Without speaking to her?That bastard.

Secret meetings weren’t reasons people might want to get revenge, but they suggested a double life she hadn’t been part of. He’d been old-fashioned that way, though. There was a sixteen-year gap between them, and he’d been part of a generation where men had still been expected to be the sole providers and handle all the finances for their families, while women remained keepers of the home. She knew it had bothered him that she had insisted on joint accounts, even though he’d made her sign a pre-nup. She also knew that he found her sexuality threatening. In the beginning, he had done his best to keep up, but as soon as they had gotten married, she became just another status symbol for him—like his house or his car. The way he talked about her films sometimes made her feel dirty or cheap. She had the sense that he thought he was saving her from a gilded sewer, as if he’d picked her up on the streets instead of at a sponsored event.

He's gone, she told herself, aware that her breathing had already started to pick up.None of it matters. Not anymore.

She ran her hands over her face before going back to picking at his things, finding herself liking who he had become less and less as she found multiple receipts for pricey impulse buys they couldn’t afford and late-night bar visits. No wonder everyone here in town looked at her askance. She could only imagine what Marco had spouted about her while drunk.

Donni stuffed the post-its into her purse, along with his day planner, before leaning forward on her elbows. She stared out through the slats of the window that looked out into their backyard pool. Sometimes, it felt like that pool had to be full of her tears; she’d cried in it often enough.

Once, it had been a happy place. They’d had cabana parties and barbecues—well, Marco would hire someone to barbecue. He was fond of hibachi. But as Rafe got older and the tensions between father and son increased, their parties became less family-oriented and more the work of a desperate showman.

About seven years after Rafe had been kicked out, they had both been reclining by the water. Donni had been wearing her favorite black two-piece and drinking a glass of wine. It had been her first. Marco was already three deep but she’d learned not to say anything. So when he asked her, “Has my son ever behaved inappropriately towards you?” in a slightly slurred voice, her first thought was that she’d misheard him.

“Why would you ask me that?” she’d snapped, defensive.

“I just always thought it was strange how quickly you turned on him. You used to be able to do no fucking wrong in his eyes.” He’d taken a slug of the expensive Sangiovese she had purchased for him, sucking it down like juice. “But that morning—what I saw wasn’t hatred. It was betrayal.”

“I’ve never been unfaithful,” she had said tightly. Which had been true. “Never.”

Marco gave her a look so cold that she found herself thinking,This is not the man I married.It was as if he’d been replaced by an alien version of himself. The face was the same, but whatever lay beneath was warped. Different.

“Were you fucking my son, Adonica?” he said, making her flinch back against the chair. “The way he looked at you that morning—I couldn’t get it out of my head. Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve been inside them.”

She had sloshed her wine into his face for that and then he threw his half-empty bottle of wine against the fence, shattering dark-green glass and splashing the wood with crimson, before wrapping himself in a towel and stalking back to the house. Twenty minutes later, she heard the Mercedes start as he peeled out of their driveway, too wasted to be driving but apparently too angry to care. He hadn’t come back all night and the next morning, he’d been all apologies. But his accusation had stayed with her years after that, tainting every interaction and making her wonder what Marco thought he really knew.

She hadn’t realized she was slumping until the sound of approaching footsteps instinctively made her straighten. Rafe nudged the door open, holding two glasses of white wine. He handed her one of the frosty glasses. “I thought you could use a break.”

Donni glanced at the now cold and unappetizing coffee. Still, she hesitated.

(Were you fucking my son?)

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