The Danger You Know Page 9

  And Ari.

  I can’t forget him.

  Just the thought of seeing him again makes me nervous, my thumb moving to my wedding ring as if that alone can protect me from feeling what I shouldn’t be feeling.

  Interest.

  Curiosity.

  Heat.

  And longing. That’s the worst feeling. A very wrong feeling. I’m a married woman. I shouldn’t be thinking this way about another man.

  “What exactly are you doing, Adeline?”

  I jump at Grant’s voice, feeling like a kid caught doing something I shouldn’t. Setting my camera down, I turn to look up at him, shrinking back when I see his green eyes narrow on the equipment spread around me.

  “What is this?”

  His brown hair is a mess around his face, lines marring the normally smooth skin. Dark stubble shadows his jaw, his white dress shirt wrinkled and untucked from his slate grey pants.

  Feeling guilty for the stress obvious in his shoulders and tired expression, I climb to my feet and stand in front of him.

  “You look exhausted.”

  Grant is a good-looking man. Tall, broad, in shape. He’s more lean than muscular, a runner’s body he earned running several miles every morning. He isn’t just strict with the people around him, he’s strict with himself as well.

  Running a hand through his hair, he glances down at my camera again before turning away to walk toward our bed.

  “Of course, I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep at home without my wife screaming and beating the shit out of me.”

  With his back to me, he unbuttons his shirt, the fabric peeling away from his shoulders and down his arms. Dropping it on the bed, he turns back.

  “And you refuse to do anything about it. A bit selfish, don’t you think?”

  The tension returns, my spine locking in place. “We have guest rooms.”

  “And I’m supposed to sleep in a fucking guest bedroom in my own fucking home?” he roars, the volume of his voice knocking me back.

  No. We can’t be fighting like this. Not yet. We haven’t even been married for a year. He’s just grumpy when tired. Work has been busy. I’m having my issues. I can fix this.

  Maybe it’s selfish of me to refuse the pills, but they’re a quick fix and nothing else. The doctor told me there were other ways. It would just take time.

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, I step up to him, placing my palms on his chest. His heartbeat is so strong, I can count every pulse, can see the rapid pace of it in his throat.

  “The doctor said there is behavioral therapy I can try. Other types of medications that aren’t addictive.”

  His eyes pin mine, not a drop of mercy in them. “That’ll take months I don’t have.”

  I run my palms up his chest to grab his shoulders. “I can sleep in the guest room until the symptoms calm down again.”

  His anger boils over, hands coming up to grab my wrists. Shoving me away with such strength that I fall back onto the bed, he leans over me, not giving a damn that tears are stinging my eyes, his palms slamming down on the mattress on either side of my head.

  “You’ll do this my way. I’m sick and fucking tired of waiting for you to figure it out yourself. If you don’t take those pills tonight, I’ll shove them down your damn throat. And I won’t feel bad about it, Adeline. This is what you need, and I’m not playing around anymore. I gave you a chance to make the decision yourself. Remember that.”

  He shoves away, storms into the bathroom and slams the door so hard the walls shake.

  Pushing up to sit on the side of the bed, I bury my face in my hands, fighting to stop the sobs rattling up my throat. The door opens again, the sound of the running shower becoming louder.

  “And another thing. Put the camera away, and do the things I need you to do. The Nakamura contract is extremely important to me. You can’t afford to screw it up. Call Gloria and find out where she gets her hair cut. She knows what’s expected of a businessman’s wife. And deal with every other thing we need to keep the household running. You made those promises to me when we got married. Do your fucking job, and give up the bullshit interests you could afford to have when you were a child.”

  Jerking my head up, I glare at him.

  “You used to love those things about me. You met me when I was out taking shots. You approached me! Not the other way around. You supported me the entire time I prepared for my first show. Why now are you demanding I give it up?”

  His lips thin, the steam from the shower rolling out from behind him. The ends of his brown hair curl with the moisture.

  “It was charming then, but you were young. It’s not charming now.”

  Turning, he slams the door again and leaves me to choke on the reality of married life.

  Staring at his door as if my anger alone can knock it down, I feel the familiar thread of rebellion uncurl inside me. It would be so easy to walk away from this. So easy to pack it all up and go back to the house I still haven’t sold despite his demands I do so.

  But that’s the old Adeline, right?

  The very same girl who got herself in trouble every time she turned around.

  Taking a steadying breath, I glance at my closet where the camera sits beckoning me forward.

  I think of the man who will be waiting for me at the cemetery because I begged him to show.

  I think of my husband. Of the man I made vows to on the day we got married.

  How is it so easy for everything to spin out of control?

  And what can I do to pull it back together again?

  Pushing to my feet, I grab my phone and text Gloria to find out where I should go to deal with my hair. Then I text the caterer Grant likes to use to see what kind of menu should be arranged for a Japanese client.

  Finished with that, I drop my phone to the table and stare at my closet again.

  Grant’s exhausted. You can see it in his eyes. And maybe that’s why he’d lost his temper just now.

  I know I can be difficult. Know it’s selfish to ask him to give up sleep so I won’t have to take those pills.

  But no matter how badly I want to do what he asks me, I don’t want to become a walking zombie either.

  My phone pings, and I glance at the screen to see Gloria’s name flash across it.

  I check the message and text her back to make me an appointment as soon as possible.

  Grant needs a wife, and that’s what I will give him.

  The camera sits untouched while I get dressed and ready to go.

  Ari

  There have been times in recent years when I believed some ridiculous decision I made was the first indication I was losing my mind. All of those times were particularly true when it came to Adeline.

  The stalking, obviously. Getting involved when it was the worst thing for me. Killing someone when it didn’t involve a hefty deposit in my bank account.

  All dumb.

  All inadvisable.

  Stupid, if you want to put a more precise label on it. Actions without thought.

  But none of those top this moment, this span of minutes I spend staring at a face so serene that it would calm a normal person, touch some frantic part inside them to smooth the wrinkles until they can believe it will all be okay.

  Only, it has the opposite effect on me.

  I’ll admit, she is beautiful. Hair in long waves down her back that flow like water, the ends curling where they fall over delicate shoulders.

  The barely there dress she wears leaves little to the imagination, more akin to spider web than cloth where it drapes across her breasts and down her stomach.

  Despite my presence, someone who will never be allowed past Heaven’s pearly gates, and in spite of the anger that shrouds me until even the birds and insects know to keep their distance, this woman won’t stop staring at me.

  She’s mocking me with tranquil eyes and a full, pouty mouth, her fluffy wings rising up behind her as she mourns whoever lays dead beneath the ground.

&nb
sp; This woman blames me.

  Accuses me.

  And she’s right to do so.

  While I’m not responsible for the body buried beneath the ground she guards, I played a part in the burial of many others.

  Still, I hate her.

  This angel.

  A cold, lifeless statue with no sentient thought.

  I can barely restrain myself from marching over to take a sledgehammer to her placid face.

  And that’s when you know you’ve lost it. When inanimate objects have the power to tip you over the edge while you wait for someone who clearly isn’t coming.

  Here I stand, surrounded by nature that covers the dead, shadowed by tree branches that sway in a gentle breeze, staring at images of Heaven and the peace that would come with it.

  I’m a stain on that serenity. A tumor. A smear of fury that taps its foot and disrupts the calm scenery.

  My stare snapping to every tiny movement that occurs around me, I grow more impatient with every minute that passes.

  Yet, rather than walking away, I check my phone, purse my lips, shift my posture, wonder how the hell I’ve ended up waiting for a woman who is a half hour late.

  There has to be an explanation, and to find it, I tap the tracking app to scroll through the argument Adeline had with Grant the night before. I read through the messages I’d watched in real time as Grant leaned against the window in his high-rise office, tapping them out with furious thumbs.

  There is nothing new to learn from that exchange.

  What is new are the texts to Grant’s sister for a hair appointment. The text to a caterer for the next dinner party. The texts that show Adeline is slipping back into the proper shell. That she’d been handled. That maybe I’m wrong to think I can be some fucking hero swooping in to rescue her from herself.

  I’m not a hero. Never claimed to be. But for one brief moment, I deluded myself into thinking...maybe.

  Fuck...

  My head falls back against the mausoleum, and I clench my eyes shut.

  Perhaps a hero has never been what Adeline needed in the first place.

  Thoughts drifting back to the photographs that gave a peek inside her fractured soul, I wonder if Adeline hasn’t been grasping at the villain the entire time.

  I can be that to her.

  I have been that.

  It’s my fucking fault for pussing out and refusing to take what I wanted to begin with.

  Word of advice: Never make decisions when angry.

  They lead to mistakes.

  To problems.

  To actions and consequences that are impossible to escape.

  Talking to statues apparently isn’t my moment of insanity, though. What I do next will be.

  I push away from the wall intent on my new path. Giving the judgmental bitch for an angel the finger as I pass her, I’m halfway across the cemetery when my name is called.

  Turning, I watch an obsession running toward me. Not a person. Not Adeline. Not a wife that should be at home with her husband rather than running to me.

  An obsession.

  A mental construct.

  The actual proof that I’m losing my fucking mind.

  Adeline’s black hair blows out behind her, blue eyes swollen and rimmed red, lips parted when she steps up to stand in front of me as if she has every right to be here.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  You will be...

  Adeline is wearing a white sundress, her pale skin like porcelain beneath the tiny straps on her shoulders.

  I almost laugh at the choice.

  White.

  Of course.

  Just like the night I first saw her. Just like the day I’d made the mistake of believing I could let her go.

  A good man would have told her to walk the fuck away. To get lost. To go back to her husband.

  It’s a pity that, between the time I’d arrived here this morning and now, I’ve forgotten what a good man really is.

  Focused on blue eyes that glimmer, on the swelling beneath them that speaks of tears and pain, I circle her in my mind. Study her. Pull her apart and put her back together again so I can inspect all the individual pieces.

  My gaze drops to her empty hands, back up to the way she stares at me with expectation written across her features.

  “Where’s your camera?”

  Adeline glances down, searches her palms as if that will conjure the reason we agreed to meet again. Not finding it, she tilts her face up to me, confusion swirling behind swollen eyes.

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  It’s a simple question, yet she winces to hear it. Not because the way it snapped off my tongue. Not because I step closer to steal the space around her.

  But because it’s a question we both need to ask ourselves.

  Why are we here?

  I know the answer.

  Does she?

  Voice a whisper, she meets my stare.

  “I felt bad for standing you up.”

  I grin, only the corner of my mouth shifting to hear the lie that falls so easily from her lips. Adeline doesn’t give a fuck about disappointing people. She’s been doing it her entire life. I’ve watched her do it over and over again.

  She can’t lie to a person who knows her better than she knows herself. Can’t lie to the man who looks beneath her games to see what exists inside. Can’t lie to a liar that will play those games better now that he’s accepted who he really is.

  She stumbles in the silence that falls between us, my lack of a response shifting the ground beneath her feet. Filling it, she invites me back into seclusion like the stupid little girl she is.

  “I thought we could look at the rest of the mausoleum.”

  Stepping so close that she has to crane her neck to look up at me, I reach out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

  “Is that what you thought?”

  She swallows, nods. Heat dancing across her cheeks in a pale pink that fights against the redness in her eyes.

  How unfortunate for the fly that she should invite the spider to its own web.

  Adeline has been crying. A lot from what I can tell, her eyes still wet from salty tears.

  No doubt from arguing with Grant, a man I should have known would never make her happy.

  “After you.”

  A shiver runs over her shoulders, a spark of interest, of indecision, her gaze meeting mine only to flicker away again.

  I think she might change her mind. Do the right thing. Act smart. But instead, she nods her head again and turns her back to me to lead us to a building where shadows can hide the truth of bad decisions.

  The hinges of the iron gate welcome us back, the interior wrapping us in a cloak of dappled sunlight and the dance of dead leaves. Ivy crawls across crumbling stone as the wind whispers promises and secrets.

  Why are we here?

  It’s not to discuss sculpture and carvings. To critique the use of different methods and tools to make the crypts. To photograph a place I know she sees differently than every other living soul because Adeline lives for the beauty of tragedy.

  Adeline turns toward me, and I drop the shroud of a grieving man to show her what has been following her for far longer than she knows.

  It’s the first time she really sees me, and she starts to recognize the monster that prowls.

  I don’t miss the tiny instinct to escape, the way her teeth go to her bottom lip, the small step she takes to back away from me while her mind races to close the distance.

  Stammering over words that mean nothing to me, she tries to point out a bas-relief image of a rose broken beneath a death’s head skull, its eyes hollow.

  “Um, so this means a younger woman is buried here. Sometimes, the stage of the blossom indicates time, and while the flower isn’t a young bud, it’s not in full bloom either.”

  I’m beyond the point of bothering to turn and pretend I give a damn about what she pointed out. My stare locks
on her face, body far too still.

  Nervous eyes flick my direction, to the wall, back to me.

  She moves away, creeps deeper into the mausoleum while I follow behind.

  “This room is my favorite. I’m sure you can tell why.”

  It’s remarkable, I’ll give it that. Money poorly spent to mark a family as wealthy and important in their time.

  The ceilings lift seven feet above my head, designed to mimic individual tiles with different heavenly references carved into each one. In the center of the room, a short wrought iron fence surrounds a plot of bare land, while box crypts line the walls. Small windows allow a touch of light into the deep shadows, the glass dirty, tiny branches tapping against the panes with each gust of wind.

  “Samuel Rinehart is interred in the center. This was the original intent of the mausoleum. His resting place. But given the size, the family decided to use it as a family vault later on.”

  I hope the Rineharts won’t mind me using it as well. Not for the same purpose, of course.

  Even if they do, there isn’t a damn thing they can say about it.

  I match Adeline’s every step, our path working a slow half circle around the center plot until we’re on the other side.

  Pausing, she glances over her shoulder at me, my silence frightening her, as it should.

  She flashes a wobbly smile, turning so that we’re facing each other. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  My voice is a low whisper. “I’m still wondering why you’re here.”

  She grows quiet, head turning so that I’m studying her profile instead of her face.

  I won’t let her hide.

  I won’t hide.

  Not anymore.

  “To show you these-“

  “Stop lying.”

  Her eyes snap to me, round wider. I reach to rub my thumb beneath one of them.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Adeline stills, her thumb rubbing over her wedding ring, the small habit she probably doesn’t even notice, but that tells me everything she isn’t saying.

  “I got into an argument with my -“

  “Husband,” I finish for her.

  Another panicked flash of blue as her eyes meet mine for a second.