Page 111 of Too Late

His gaze falls on the other picture frame, and he glides across the room. He swings the crucifix like it’s a bat, knocking the picture off the nightstand and straight into the wall. Even knowing it was coming, I still flinch. I cringe at the amount of hatred he has for Luke.

This entire time, I’ve been silently praying that Luke will miraculously come home early. But now I’m praying he doesn’t, because I’m not sure any man can withstand the person Asa is right now. He’s completely irrational. He’s void of compassion, of empathy. He’s delusional. He’s dangerous. And I’d rather get Asa out of this apartment and be forced to accompany him than have him here when Luke returns home.

Asa looks around the room. When he doesn’t see anything else that makes him vengeful, he tosses the crucifix on the bed. “When does Luke get home?”

He knows when Luke gets home.

I could lie and say he’ll be home any minute, but if Asa somehow knew our address, then he more than likely already knows our every move. He knows Luke gets home at six every night.

“Six,” I say to him.

He nods. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. “It’s gonna be a long wait,” he says. “What do you want to do for the next few hours?”

Wait … what?

“We’rewaitingfor him?”

He drops down onto the bed next to me. “Of course we are, Sloan. I didn’t come all this way to take back my girl and not get revenge on the bastard who stole her from me.”

He somehow says all this with a smile on his face.

Once again, I swallow my fear. “We could eat lasagna. If I don’t take it out of the oven in the next two minutes, it’ll be inedible.”

Asa leans over me and presses a kiss to my mouth, making a loud pop when he pulls back. “Fucking genius, babe.” He scoots off the bed and pulls me up. “I’m starving.”

He lets go of my hands and walks into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and he watches me the whole time he stands over the toilet. I put my clothes back on, trying to stop my hands from shaking too noticeably. He flushes the toilet and walks back into the bedroom, toward the living room. “I was just kidding earlier,” he says. “I don’t hate your lasagna. I feel really bad for saying that; I was just really upset with you.”

“I know, baby. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.” I walk into the kitchen. The lasagna has been in the oven way longer than I intended for it to be, but I don’t think it’s burnt yet. It just won’t make for very good pictures for the cookbook.

I laugh as soon as I have that thought.

Seriously? My life is in fucking danger, and I’m thinking about a stupid cookbook?

I walk into the kitchen, but Asa isn’t far behind me. I’m sure he’s on my heels because he’s not convinced I won’t go for a knife. He’s smart, because if he wasn’t a step behind me, I’d absolutely go for one. I grab the empty boxes of ingredients strewn across the counter and toss them toward the trash, but as soon as I do, I see there’s no trash bag lining the can.

That’s because I took the trash out of the can.

I look at the trash bag, tied at the top, sitting next to the empty trash can.

I look at the empty trash can.

My pulse begins to race, and I do everything I can to hide it.

I forgot the fucking trash!

Calm down, calm down, calm down. I grab an oven mitt and I pull the oven door open. I set the pan of lasagna down on top of the stove. Asa reaches over my shoulder and opens a cabinet to grab a couple of plates. He kisses the top of my head in the process. He grabs a spatula and cuts into the lasagna, refusing to bring a knife into the equation. The whole time he cuts at the lasagna, I’m staring at the empty trash can.

I didn’t take out the trash.

FIFTY-SIX

LUKE

Ilook at my phone again.

“You aren’t listening,” Ryan says, bringing my attention back to him.

“I’m listening.” I set my phone on the table, faceup. I stare at it and pretend to be listening to Ryan, but he’s right. I’m not.

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