Page 77 of Little Deaths

M: I’ll set you up with a fitting, and we’ll see what Laurence can do with the costume. In the meantime, I want you to lose five pounds before the shoot, and I want you to lose it from your ass and not your tits. Do you think you can do that?

W: I . . . don’t know how that’s possible.

M: Well, you better figure it out. Or we can send you back to the borough you came from. There are lots of actresses out there, more talented than you. Prettier than you. Skinnier than you. It’d be easier for me to stake my chances on a sure thing. I’m doing you a favor.

W:Dully.A favor.

There’s a smacking sound.

M: And don’t you forget it.

Chapter Fourteen

You—and Nothing Else

Donni’s phone rang as she was driving home. The dead end with the Post-It notes had disheartened her and she wasn’t sure what to do next. She glanced at her phone impatiently, but it was Angie, not Rafe. There were several unanswered texts in her message box, as well. Angie must have been worried. If the tables were reversed, she would be worried, too.

She drove out to the pull-out, which looked out onto the chapparal. The shrubs and weeds were segregated from the nearby ranch homes by tall fences, but the wilds always found a way back in. People were the same way. No matter how much they tore at the dark vines of their soul, there were always more—more secrets, more guilt, more lies shrouded in thorns.

The phone, which had gone silent, began to ring again. Donni picked it up. “Hey, sorry. I was driving. I had to pull over to the side of the road.”

“Are you a ghost? Because I feel like I’m talking to a ghost. You’ve been M.I.A. for days. The last I heard from you was the day of Marco’s funeral. I tried giving you space, but now I’m getting worried. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Donni lied. “It’s just been a lot with Marco gone and the funeral and—”attempted murders“—everything. Rafe is . . . another layer of it. I’ve been distracted.”

That’s one word for it.

“Do you need me to fly over there, Donni?”

The thought made her feel sick with horror. “Aren’t you filming?”

“Pacific Rimjob, and yes. But I bleached my asshole for these fucks. The least they can do is let me see my bestie in her time of need.”

Donni laughed and the sound of it made her start guiltily, like she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. “God.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, babes. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“You don’t need to fly out. I’m just trying to figure out what to do. I keep going over things in my head, over and over. Like what he did with the wine—why would he do that? He had money. Or at least, I thought he did. Enough, anyway. And then to go and do that, and kill so many of his friends—of people heknew—with wine that he knew was poison . . .”

“You didn’t know you married a psychopath,” Angie said. “How could you?”

Because I’m not exactly blameless, either.

“I was his wife,” Donni said, in a tone wrenched by guilt. It wasn’t an answer to Angie’s question, but of course, she took it that way.

“Serial killers marry,” Angie pointed out. “A psychopath can be very good at living a double life. That’s why they’re psychopaths. If he managed to fool you, it’s because you’re a normal human being who doesn’t assume that every person in your life is a murderous fiend.”

“You don’t see the way the people in town look at me,” Donni said. “It’s like they think I’m Lady Macbeth—that I led him down this path by whispering in his ear.”

“Well, what about the son?” Angie wanted to know. “Is he any help?”

Donni closed her eyes and wished she had her ylang-ylang. It smelled like her air-conditioner might be mildewing. An image popped into her head of being bent over the desk in the spare room with his hand pinning her to its surface by the back of her throat.

Help did not even begin to describe what Rafe was giving her.

“He’s doing what he can,” she said at last.

“Don’t be afraid to lawyer up if you have to. You’ve put up with a lot of shit, Donni. No need to put up with your husband’s, too. Or his son’s.”

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