I lean down and place
Trefor’s finger in the center of the fire. It sits there, pristine and white among the dancing flames. Then the edges begin to char and the nail smokes. The crucifix tattoo stays visible for a long time but even that is slowly eaten up as the flesh blackens. A short while later, the finger is unrecognizable as anything human, merely a curled bit of refuse in a fire in the middle of nowhere.
I crack open the whisky bottle and take a swig. It’s supposed to be in honor of my brother but it doesn’t feel like anything except a mouthful of liquor. I shove the bottle at Branwen, and she shakes her head.
“You’re Catholic. Say something.” But she just stares back at me, silent and bewildered. “Fucking useless.”
I pour the rest of the bottle of whisky on the fire, and the flames leap high into the night. It burns and it burns, but everything’s still in darkness.
Branwen
Cora used to like campfires. We had one out in the fields past the vineyard when we were fourteen. Daddy let us camp down by the stream for the night, bemused we wanted to forgo my comfortable bedroom for our sleepover, but indulging us just the same. The de Winters were important to him then and he couldn’t be happier that Cora de Winter was my best friend. “You girls have fun. Call me up at the house if you need anything and I’ll send someone down with it. Is your phone charged, Branwen?”
Nothing was too much trouble for Cora de Winter. Not then.
We made s’mores over the campfire and then lay on our backs, looking up at the stars as we talked about the boys at school and which teachers were riding our asses. Cora confessed she had a crush on our English teacher and shouted his name into the sky, and we laughed like crazy before falling asleep under the same blanket.
As Geraint and I walk back to his car, he’s silent and his grip on my hand is like iron. Every now and then, the flashlight illuminates his face and I get a glimpse of his expression. It’s murderous. What did daddy do? Geraint wanted me to witness this, the finger being burnt. I don’t want to believe what I think it means. Not again.
We drive a few miles in silence, then Geraint sees a twenty-four-hour motel and pulls off the interstate again. It’s nearly four in the morning as he checks us into a room and takes the key from the gray-faced desk clerk.
The carpet in the one room he’s rented is pink, tan, and yellow and clashes horribly with the blue-and-green curtains from a different decade. There’s one double bed. Geraint locks the door behind us and shoves the key into his pocket.
“Use the bathroom and be quick about it. I’m fucking beat and I’ve got to tie you up before we sleep.” He takes off his jacket and T-shirt and tosses the T-shirt to me. “Sleep in that.”
I clench the warm fabric in my hands, watching Geraint as he prepares his makeshift bed on the floor. I’ve become so used to seeing Jesus’ emaciated torso on the cross I’ve forgotten men don’t look like that under their clothes. Geraint is filled out with muscles and his flesh is smooth and looks warm to the touch. There’s a thin trail of hair from his navel down into his jeans, and it fascinates me. But even more curious is the silver crucifix on a long chain around his neck. Geraint didn’t strike me as much of a believer.
He sits down on the floor with his back against the bed and rubs his hand over his face. “Hurry up, Catholic girl. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
I go into the bathroom and get changed, drink some water, and use the toilet. Geraint’s T-shirt comes down nearly to my knees and is full of his scent. I’m surrounded by him. Locked in by him. There’s nowhere for me to run. No one who’ll have me. Nothing I deserve but the punishment I feel is coming.
There’s a hammering on the door and I jump. “Get the fuck out here, Branwen, and get to bed.”
I open the door and scoot past him, doing as I’m told. The room is dim and the only light coming in is through the half-open venetian blinds. Geraint hunkers down beside me on his heels, holding a length of rope.
“Give me your hands.”
I study his face as he ties my wrists together, my cheek pressed into the cool pillow. Clear brown eyes, dark hair, bristles on his cheek. His brows are like thick, black calligraphy marks, inked by a monk into a handmade Bible. There were paintings of saints all over the walls at the convent, and I studied them for hours. I envied their peace. Their grace. Without thinking, I reach out and touch Geraint’s lower lip with my forefinger, and it’s as plush and warm as it looks. He’s got that certainty too. He knows exactly what he’s doing and why, and nothing and no one can stop him.
How does he do that?
“You’re a funny little thing.” Geraint’s lips move against my finger. He ties the rope to the post beneath the mattress and stands up, staring at me in the gloom. Headlights from a car outside slide across his chest. I’m less than useless to him, and as soon as we arrive in Napa, he’s going to figure that out. If daddy doesn’t kill me, Geraint will.
“Night night, Catholic girl,” Geraint mutters, and lies down on the floor.
I stare at the ceiling in the darkness, seeing the severed finger in the fire; Cora lying on the ground, covered in blood. It’s all my fault. My sins have come back to haunt me, and there’s no way I’m getting out of this alive.
Geraint
I wake to the sound of weeping.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. There are bars of light and shadow on the ceiling, and a musty smell all around me. I’m lying on the carpet. What the fuck?
Oh yeah. Branwen and I pulled into this cheap motel just outside of Sonora so I could get a couple hours sleep. I glance at the red numbers on the digital clock—five-forty in the morning. Jesus. I’ve only been asleep for an hour and a half.
I stay where I am and scrub my hands over my face. I don’t want to feel sorry for Branwen. That’ll only make what I have to do that much harder.
“Branwen,” I say sharply, staring at the ceiling. “Wake up.”