My brain feels thick, even my thoughts slurred.
I sit up, rub a hand across my brow and, with effort, push myself out of bed. I look around my apartment. Everything appears untouched. My shoes neatly arranged in the closet, my clothes arranged by color and season. My laptop lays untouched on my desk, not a paperclip or speck of dust astray.
Did he bring me here himself? Did he carry me? Did he look around my private home?
Was it hard for him to leave me?
It’s clean and organized, the way I left it. The mantle above my fireplace bare but for a few small, hand-carved ornaments I collected when my family vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard.
Wait.
My gaze swivels back to the mantle again. I ignore the spasm of pain from the sudden movement.
There were six ornaments when I left. Now, there are five. Through the cloud of brain fog, I piece together what was there before I left and try to recall what’s missing, when it dawns on me with vivid clarity. A bird. A little glass nightingale. It’s gone.
Did he take it?
I close my eyes against the rush of emotion that floods me. Constantine was here, I know he was, right here in my apartment. He took the little bird as a memento.
I have to vindicate him.
I have to know if my father did what Constantine said he did.
My mouth feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton. I stumble toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge. I lean against the counter for support, but I’m too weak to even take the top off. Cursing under my breath, hating how weak and helpless I am, I focus. Take in a deep breath. Twist the cap off and guzzle half a bottle.
I slump against the counter, trying to piece together the next step.
I have to get to my parents’ house. That might be the easiest step of all.
Holding the bottle of water as if it’s my lifeline, I clumsily walk back to bed. Collapsing, I fall and let my weighted limbs sink into the mattress.
Okay, alright.
First step, call them.
Get back to Mom and Dad’s house.
Evade police.
Feign confusion.
Sneak onto Dad’s laptop.
Scour it.
I take another sip of water and clumsily spill it all over myself. I wipe it off my cheeks, surprised to find them wetter than I expected. Am I crying? I’m crying. No bother, it’ll only add to my pleas for help when I call.
I tap the phone. “Dial Mom.”
The phone rings. My mother answers on the second ring. “Clare?”
“It’s me,” I say, my voice rusty and ragged.
Her tone is sharp. “Where are you?”
“Home.”
“You’re here?”
Don’t be so stupid, I want to tell her.
“My apartment.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Someone will be over to get you immediately.” A pause. “Are you hurt?” She says it like it’s an afterthought, and that stings.
I remember how Constantine held me. It would have been the first question he would have asked me.
I can’t think like this.
I push my hand palm-down on my belly and ignore the aching in my heart.
“No,” I lie.
She doesn’t care if I’m hurt. Maybe she’d even prefer it if I didn’t come back so she has an endless array of attention, a tragedy to wear like a cloak. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard.
I have to stay focused.
Even if I never see him again.
Even if everything I felt was nothing but a sham.
Even if everything I hoped for was only in my mind.
He didn’t kill Roxy, and I know that now.
I’ll help him find who did.
The time passes slowly as I stumble around my apartment trying to right myself. No time for a shower, so I run my fingers through my hair and can almost hear him. You look beautiful, just like that.
A man like him doesn’t lie. He may be a criminal, and he may have done terrible things, but lying to me was never one of them, unless—no, I won’t think of that now. He never made a promise to me, and I can’t question any of that now.
I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. I imagined it would feel nice to be home again in my own private sanctuary. I’ve worked for years to ensure my home was a place of comfort and luxury, a place to unwind and relax. But it doesn’t feel like that now. Now, I feel alone and isolated. My skin crawls with the need to leave, and I vaguely wonder if it’s the effects of the medication he gave me.
My heart says it’s something else.
I laugh mirthlessly to myself when I remember my mother’s words. Someone will be over to get you.
If Constantine had been afraid for my safety and then I called him, he wouldn’t send someone. He’d come himself. Though I wonder if he’d ever let me out of his sight to begin with. Here I am now.