Page 92 of Make Me Scream

He told me a lot of fucking things.

“He had his nose bandaged! Like it was broken.”

Lane glances at my front door and steps toward it, but I stay put.

“I didn’t hit him that hard,” he says. “He did that for sympathy.”

I suppose that’s possible. Mundell didn’t act like he was in any obvious pain. If Lane’s right, though, that’s so manipulative! What a psycho!

So which is more likely? That Mundell is an absolute creep, or that Lane is lying?

“Gwen, whatever he told you-”

“Who’s Anne?”

“What?”

“He told me about Chloe. He said to ask you about Anne.”

The fury in his eyes breaks, and his imposing presence deflates like a balloon.

“Let’s go inside,” he says.

Joel should be home now, hopefully in the middle of painting. My place isn’t an option.

“No. Somewhere else.”

“Fine. Whatever you want.”

I lead us to an old dinette down the block. Full of city workers and ancient retirees, there’s a steady din of utensils against ceramic and conversations in a half-dozen languages. Lane orders us coffees at the register and we slip into a booth against the back wall. Neither of us speak until a wrinkled, wiry waitress delivers our coffees.

“Who is she?” I ask. My hand is in my purse, clutching my phone. “Who’s Anne?”

Lane bats his eyes, looking away.

“Another ex of mine.”

“Before or after Chloe?”

“Before.”

“What happened?”

Steam rises from the coffee. He bows his head, staring into the mug as if he could jump in. His face wrenches, rising and collapsing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so visibly perturbed.

“She died,” he says at last. The words cut through the noise, dulling it in their wake, leaving us alone to talk.

“How?” I ask.

Lane takes a deep breath, gathering his composure, but his voice still wavers when he answers, “Suicide.”

“That’s awful.”

He nods.

“Yeah.”

This must have occurred years ago, but he’s hurting as if this is still a fresh wound.

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