Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

The world is shades of gray. I always knew. But I thrash in those murky waters now—as I stop by the bakery, the pizza place, the mom and pop electronics store, and finally, a tiny women’s clothing boutique. Every second I spend on my errands makes my heart pound harder.

Finally, I’m back at the cabin. I’m cleaning up, I’m showering. I’m opening the thing I bought, setting it up, slipping it into the soft, insulated fabric cooler. I dress in the new clothes I washed and dried while I was showering and tidying up. Then I step into the bathroom with the one item of makeup I brought along: my lipstick.* * *LucaIn the dream, I’m walking toward the yacht. Lamberto’s. It’s a dark night—really dark, I notice—but the stars are bright. They look like diamonds shining in the sky. I’m walking down the dock, my eyes fixed on the too-bright stars, and I feel really damn good.

I don’t know if she’s beside me, but she’s around. Elise is somewhere near here, and we’re going somewhere.

We’re going somewhere—it’s a long trip—but I can’t find her. Everything is dark inside the yacht. The only thing I can see is the gun, because there’s moonlight shining on it. As soon as I see it shining, I feel sick. It’s creepy how it’s lit up, like a signal to me.

Grab it, that light says. And I don’t want to. It’s funny—people think I like guns. I don’t, so I start walking away, back toward the stairs that lead up onto the deck. And then the fucking thing is right in front of me.

This shit is weird. It’s like a video game. Pick up the gun, Luca. Pick me up. It’s floating. I don’t want to touch it—I don’t want to hear a gun’s BOOM, ever again—but I can’t move without it blocking my view. It even blocks my path, so I can’t move without bumping into it. So I pick it up. It’s a grab right out of thin air. As my hand closes around its cool handle, I feel a jolting sense of déjà vu.

Then I’m looking at my dad. He’s taped to the chair. I don’t understand why. What the fuck did he do? I don’t like this. I think how it’s ironic that I’m always worried he’ll come home with a gun. For once, our roles are reversed. But who put him in that chair? I look around, but everything is dark. I look back at him, and my hand jerks.

BOOM!

Time freezes. I don’t understand what’s going on, so I step closer, and that’s when I see his head. I’m screaming. There’s blood on my shoes. I’m running. I can hear it splat against the floor and then I’m outside and everyone is screaming. My dad is dead. My dad’s head is all over the floor.

I run through the house—it’s Max’s house—and I can’t find her. I can’t find her.

I wake screaming.

Where am I?

“Oh fuck!”

I don’t even have a chance to crawl to the side of the bed before I start dry heaving. Turns out it’s a good thing I’ve had nothing since that coffee this morning.

I change the bedding, pull a long-sleeved shirt over my head since I’m sweating bullets and it’s fucking cold. There’s a wood stove in the living room. I keep a stack of firewood just outside the back door, on a chair in the screened porch. Better get that started.

My head’s fuzzy. I check my phone, finding that she’s still next door, and have some water and another cup of coffee—which pretty stale now. Then I shower, trying not to think of what went down in this room earlier.

That turns out to be a losing proposition. Every second I’m not on the phone with Alesso, who’s been waiting to hear from me, or capturing a spider that hitched a ride inside the cabin on a log, I’m replaying this morning with Elise.

I try not to think about that moment in the shower—when she trailed her fingertip over my skin. Or the first bit in the bedroom. What I tell myself to focus on is how she asked if I’d stolen the cabin. How she called me “thirty-something,” like she doesn’t remember my birthday. I can still feel her eyes on me as I stood at the kitchen counter, making coffee so she wouldn’t see how much it fucks me up to talk about my dad and what all happened after.

Even now, I get this nauseated, roller-coaster feeling when I remember telling her I loved her. Honestly, that shit is classic. Always with my heart taped to my fucking sleeve. I hate how I’m like that.

Still, the way her mouth felt on my cock, the way she looked when I’d glance up from worshipping her pussy—that stuff’s going in my jerk-off vault forever.