Page 52 of So Close

And you, my love. No man has ever been as gorgeous in a tuxedo. Even in a photograph, you take my breath away.

So young, so radiantly in love. No hint of the secrets behind the smiles.

I return the frame to its place and move on, studying them all. I hear laughter echoing through the house, snippets of conversations, sensual cries entwined with pleasured groans. I know that’s why you haven’t returned. You hear the ghosts, too.

When I reach the stairs, I ascend. Two guestrooms are at the front of the house with their window eyes. The master bedroom at the back overlooks Long Island Sound and smells like you. Your colorful kantha quilt is folded over the foot of the bed.

Lily’s clothes still hang in her closet, and when I move to yours, I see all your clothes are there. Not the bespoke garments of the Kane Black I woke up to but the thrifted clothes of the man I first met.

I change, stripping to my underwear sans bra and then dropping a red slip dress over my head. It’s slightly too big, which randomly reminds me that lunchtime has passed, and you haven’t eaten.

In the kitchen, I search the cupboards, pantry and fridge, finding them well stocked, which I’d expected, considering Witte. I weigh the options and decide to put together a charcuterie plate for you: various salumi, crackers, olives and peppers, and sliced cheese. I drizzle a bit of honey over the cheese and add a splash of chili garlic-infused olive oil over the meat. I arrange a cocktail fork atop a linen napkin so you can keep your hands clean and finish it all off with a glass of sparkling water.

I carry everything to you on a wicker tray, stopping in the doorway of the former bedroom to take in the space. For several moments, I just absorbyou. You’re leaning back in a navy-blue leather office chair, talking into a headset while spinning a basketball on the tip of your finger. You’re confident and relaxed, speaking with assurance and occasionally listening. I smile.

Your desk is a mid-century antique, with signs of both age and frequent use. The rug is also vintage, with bare spots, and the battered leather sofa in an avocado hue looks like it weighs a ton. Even the accessories and wall art are clearly secondhand. You have racks of dumbbells and medicine balls in one corner, kettlebells, a jump rope, resistance bands, and a TRX strap anchored in the wall.

It’s soyou; I’m instantly in love with the room.

The space is far removed from your home office in the penthouse, which – while certainly the most cheerful and colorful room in that residence – is unmistakably upscale and lavish. The only similarities between that office and this one are the pale walls and the small basketball hoops affixed above the trash cans.

You glance toward me and immediately straighten, a tension in your frame that wasn’t there before as if I’ve caught you doing something you shouldn’t. You set the ball on a clear acrylic base on the corner of your desk and wave me in, even as you continue speaking. I come around to your side, setting the tray down. There is a framed snapshot of Lily by your monitor, this one of her laughing, her eyes meeting the camera lens through splayed fingers as if she’d just covered her face to hide her amusement at being photographed.

I squeak in surprise when you catch me by the wrist and tug me into your lap, tapping a button on your headset mid-sentence before giving me a quick, hard kiss.

“Thank you,” you tell me, lifting me off you and sending me away with a swat of your hand to my rear. You tap the button again and pick up your discussion right where you left off.

I look at you over my shoulder, so startled I trip over my feet and stumble. You felt like a stranger just then. I feel suddenly chilly and apprehensive, my hands rubbing goosebumps on my arms.

A smaller version of the siren portrait is hanging on the wall beside the closet. The room is yours in every way. It’s only you who inexplicably seems strange and vaguely sinister as if the sea breeze banished an enchantment, revealing something dark and previously veiled.

Dr. Goldstein is fucking with your head.

I leave the room abruptly, shivering.

I’d hoped the change of location would free us of Lily’s seductive, all-consuming hold on you. Instead, we’ve moved into a home with something worse.

It’s not Lily’s ghost who fills this house with savage, unchecked rage.

It’s yours.

31

LILY

I turnon the living room fireplace using the remote on the coffee table, then settle back into the deep-seated sofa and pull one of the faux-fur throw blankets over my legs. It takes me a minute to figure out that the siren painting is like the mirrored television in the sitting room of the penthouse; with the push of a button, the image fades into a screen.

“Hey.”

Your voice turns my head toward the hallway. Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you’re relaxed and breathtakingly handsome. For a heartbeat, I see the younger man I once knew overlaying the man you are now. His lanky body is narrower than yours, his hair longer, his smile open and cocky. His eyes gleam with humor, mischief and love. Then I blink, and he’s gone.

“Hey,” I rejoin.

“What are you up to?” Your gaze is dark and watchful.

I release my grieving for the young man I once knew and focus on you now. “Well, it looks like I’ve missed a newJack Ryanfilm, two James Bond flicks, and oneMission Impossible. I figured I’d start catching up.”

Your mouth curves in an indulgent smile. “Mind if I join you?”

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