But she wasn’t.
I really, truly thought he killed her. And I was going on that assumption right up until he pulled me aside two weeks ago and told me to go pick up AJ and watch her until further notice.
“Watch her,” he said. Never bothered to explain how she left, or why she left, or what this thing was I was looking for. He just said, “Watch her. She took something of mine when she left and I want it back. Find it.”
And then, of course, he told me to take AJ out too, and dump both bodies before I came back.
But he never did say, “She took my kid.”
So… I dunno.
“That journal,” I say, sighing heavily. Because maybe AJ was right? Maybe that is what Damon sent me to get? “How did you get him to write that?”
Yvette huffs out something that could be a laugh or could be contempt. I’m not sure because AJ is standing between her and I like a shield. “Are you fucking crazy?” she says. “He didn’t write that.”
“What?” AJ asks.
“I wrote it. In his voice. It was the closest thing I’d ever get to an apology. That sick bastard was never going to say he was sorry for what he did. And I needed to move on. So I wrote that journal to acknowledge what he did and give myself closure.”
Several moments of silence as AJ and I take this in.
I can almost feel his disappointment. He was hoping that was it. Was desperately hoping that journal was the magic bullet that would kill this job instead of Yvette.
But it’s not.
It’s the kid.
“We were, or were not, sent here to get this kid?” AJ asks.
I do a shrug, shake, nod of my head. “I don’t know, AJ. I really don’t know. Damon is…”
“A certified psychopath?” Yvette is angry when she says that. And I don’t blame her. Not after what he put her through. But it’s just… different than how she was just a couple minutes ago.
Anger is good. Defeat and surrender, not so much. So I prefer this side of her to that one.
AJ says, “Don’t worry, Yvette. I’m not gonna let him hurt you.”
And now I have to wonder… is it me he’s protecting her from? Or Damon?
Could go either way.
“Why don’t we eat dinner?” I ask. “It’s getting late, we’re all tired, and—”
“Dinner?” AJ says, like this is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
God, he is just not gonna play ball tonight, is he?
“Yeah, OK,” Yvette says. “I could use some dinner. I drank way too much today and I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Yvette,” AJ says, a little bit of frustration and anger in his tone. “Stop talking like that. You’re not killing yourself. So fine,” he says, looking at me. “We’ll eat. She needs to eat.”
I nod and walk over to the clothes on the chair. The ones Yvette brought up with her. I hold up the jeans, decide they’ll fit, and start slipping them on without underwear.
She didn’t bring any, but even if she did, I’m not wearing another man’s underwear.
AJ comes up next to me, picking up the other pair of jeans, then tosses them aside, deciding they won’t fit. Too short. He’s a huge guy. Two inches taller than me, at least.
Plus, he was already wearing comfortable jeans, so he just puts those back on.
I don’t bother with a shirt and neither does AJ. This place feels hot now. Wood stove and central heat, probably overkill.
When we turn to face Yvette she’s biting her lip. Frowning too.
I guess seeing me wearing her dead husband’s clothes has stirred up feelings.
I shrug and sigh. Such a fucked-up situation.
But I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t kill her husband or her baby. I didn’t make her run, or marry that asshole. I didn’t do any of that. None of this is my fault.
Still, I feel the need to whisper, “I’m sorry,” just before I push past AJ and walk out the bedroom door.
Whispers follow me out, but fade soon enough. Because I pull open the apartment door and head downstairs to lose myself in her industrial kitchen.
AJ joins me a few minutes later. By this time I have found bread, lunch meat, condiments, and bags of single-serving potato chips.
“Turkey or roast beef?” I ask AJ when he enters the kitchen.
“I don’t care,” he says.
“Where’s Yvette?”
“Getting drinks.”
I shoot him a raised eyebrow.
“Not alcohol. Some special sparkling cider she bought at Christmas but never opened.”
“And she wants to open it with us? AJ, look—”
“No, you look. I’m not discussing this any further, but I’m not killing her. So if you want to kill her, you’re gonna have kill me first.”
Irony, I guess. Or maybe just a really bad joke.
“Fine,” I say. “We can’t even leave this place until the snow stops and they clear the roads. So no more talk about that stuff. Just… eat your fucking sandwich and chill.”