Ottava

Patricia, Tuesday, September 1st, 7 am

What the fuck are you doing?

What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing!

This is like a deja vu, Princess. Last time you threw shit into a suitcase, you took off to Italy.

You’re so smart, Chief Detective MacLaren, you figured it out all by yourself.

"No way you’re going anywhere but the house, Patricia. Our house. Our fucking houses." The infuriating man stretches the s just to annoy me. Then again, might be he’s really furious. Well, guess what, Big guy, so am I!

Those houses are not mine, I’ve yet to pay a dime for them.

We already talked about this, Angel. I’ve groveled and admitted to being too macho to take your money, what more do you want? I don’t want your damn money. I just you. Living. In. The. Fucking. House. Whichever one. Remember our deal? Mandy against living together. I agreed to let you move in next door as a way to ease you into it. Start easing, Pussycat.

I know we had a deal. And I tried, I truly did. I have a phone line and an answering machine installed but, hum. So I’ve been delaying a little, no big deal. Between my book writing, his murder season, the renovations on the two twin townhouses, and everything else, I kept hoping I wouldn’t have to keep my word. The thought of living with Christopher scares the heck out of me. Living with someone is crap. This isn’t working. We’ve been fighting about the damn places since you bought them.

Correction, you’ve been aiming for a fight since then, while I’ve been waiting, damn patiently if you ask me, for you to tell me what the fuck is going on in that pretty little head of yours. Patricia, look at me. You do know you’re overthinking again, right?

And you’re an arrogant jerk. Again.

We glare at each other for a beat. Then another. Before Christopher takes a step closer. If he puts his hands on me, I know his mouth will follow soon after. Then my hands. My mouth. Not necessarily in that order. The end result? He’ll make love to me like I’m some fragile little thing. Since the whole king fiasco, no matter how hard I plead, provoke or bite, he makes love to me like I’m a damn porcelain doll. Been there, done that, no more Big guy.

Patricia.

"Don’t you dare Patricia me! I can’t stand it anymore! Go to work. Get out. Go away. I’m leaving. Back the heck off!"

You’re not making sense.

Let me spell it out then. I’m going to Europe with Ingrid on a book tour.

Kind of sudden, don’t you think? Doesn’t Ingrid usually plan your trips months in advance?

"We’re going impromptu this time."

I see.

He studies me in silence, and I feel myself blushing. Guilty conscience? Do you? I ask with fake bravado. I want him to storm out, yell at me, shake me, hit me even, so I would have an excuse to call the whole thing off.

I fucking do, Angel of mine, but I’m not sure you do.

Fuck you.

We will.

No, we won’t. White-gloved fingering at the most.

What the hell does that mean?

I think we should take a break.

No.

This is not working out. I’m sorry about Mandy. I’ll pay his college tuition and everything but−

Forget Mandy’s school money. Forget Mandy altogether. Hell, you can forget about Italy and taking a break too, because it ain’t going to happen. This is you running away. Again.

Stop psychoanalyzing me! This is me being fed up. This is me going to Italy. This is me dumping you. This is me not putting up with yet another man treating me like some original museum trinket!

Did you just compare me with your Joshua asshole?

Yes, I did. You are exactly like him, damn it! And I won’t go through that again.

Don’t worry, Angel of mine. You won’t have to. Go to Europe since you’re that sick of us. Hell, you can even vacation in Italy with some fucking Italians for all I care. Don’t expect the house to be waiting for you to move it when you come back, though.

Fine!

Fine!

Like in a bad movie, Christopher’s cell chooses this exact moment to ring. The last I see of him is the back of his head when he barks into his phone, MacLaren, as he slams the door of my hotel suite shut behind him. I am going to get sooo damn drunk on the plane.

Into the Woods

Patricia, Thursday, October 8th, 4 am

I’m alone in a crumbling cabin. Rain hammers on the sheet-metal roof−not suitable roofing material as far as I’m concerned. The idiot architect who built this place should not only be stripped of his license but also forced to spend the rainy season in this dump−I fumble around in the dark to find a damn flashlight or matches. I stub my toes and bump my knees on furniture that have somehow moved since I went to bed. This is not the countryside in the fall I like. What am I doing here? Ah, yes. Family. Martin. Cécile. Middle of the night in an empty metal box of a house lost in the woods, family sucks. What the hell am I doing here? I curse myself. I hate the countryside in the fall. Calm down! I love the country in the fall if it means walks in dry leaves surrounded by red and yellow trees. Ah, the smells of rain and firewood in the misty air. Then, in my mind’s eye, I sip a glass of red wine by a woodstove, my head resting on a strong, manly shoulder.

This little trip seemed so urgent when I left the townhouse. I’m here solely for Martin, my late fake brother-uncle-lover-stranger. Obviously, I have yet to sort out what Martin is, was… I’m here also, accidentally, for Cécile, the missing sister. No, I correct myself, Cécile’s probably sulking between some guy’s sheets, so she’s more absentee than missing. Beside, was Cécile ever a sister? A sister of convenience at the most. I’m good at pretending, not so good at the sister thing yet I have to do something even if Cécile is a flake.

Add a power failure and pouring rain to the mix, and I’m starting to think someone is trying to tell me something. Go home. Since hearing Martin’s message, I haven’t listened to the rational part of my subconscious. With the cacophony coming from the roof right now, I can’t hear a thing anyway.

Difficult to imagine it has been fourteen years since my last and only visit. Ouch! I rub my knee once again. It’s only my second night in the cottage, and I’ve yet to find my bearings. Not that the place is huge, at least it wasn’t earlier when I had power and daylight. Two bedrooms make the back of Martin and Cécile’s small house. I made the left bedroom as the guest room because I’ve glanced at a picture of Martin and Cécile on the wall of the bedroom to the right. I’ve yet to search both rooms and the small bathroom in between thoroughly. The front half of the house is one open plan kitchen/living room/recreation room/workshop extraordinaire. Key features of this piece of paradise? The three-panel sliding patio doors, one per bedroom plus two on either side of the front door in the main room that make up the front and back façades. And the five feet wide porch running the perimeter of the house.

Not much of a view, though, with woods on three sides and the front of the house this close to the road. I’ve closed the living room horrific yellowish-green curtains, Cécile’s or Martin’s choice I wonder, to cut the glare from the streetlight. Now, with the power out, the house is pitch-black. Martin and Cécile’s dream cabin in the woods. Were they happy here? Can anyone be happy here? Depressing.

I inch toward the bedroom door. I remember a booklet of matches in the knife drawer in the kitchen. The kitchen’s at the opposite end of the house, so all I have to do is cross the living room without thumping myself raw. Piece of cake. Arms in front of me, I take two steps before touching the stationary bike handle, Cécile’s no doubt. Headlights hit the living room patio door brightening the room for a minute before all goes black again. Who drives down a back road at four in the morning during a storm?

A couple of steps to the left I should hit the trestles. Aiming diagonally for the kitchen table, I take a step sideways along the stands and freeze. Cars driving by light up the house from left to right or right to left, as in from side window to patio door to patio door until red taillights make a finale in a side window. Had the headlights flashed in the front windows only? I’m imagining things. I grip the horizontal beam of a trestle. How heavy is this thing? Could I throw it if I needed to? I strain to hear over the rain. Cécile doesn’t drive at nights, at least she didn’t before. Beside, she doesn’t know I’m here. Nobody knows I’m here. Unless someone followed me from work… Focus!

Right here and now in the dark, I suddenly decide I’ll be buying a generator and soundproofing roof tiles in the morning, even before taking the house apart for flashlights, candles, matches, weapons, Cécile, clues and red wine. I did see a bottle of Tequila in the kitchen left cupboard. Was that a car door slamming? I reign in my imagination. Stop! It must be the rain playing tricks on me. Think comforting thoughts. Aim for the matches and the Tequila. Damn I need a drink. Footsteps on the porch? Is someone trying to break in? How can the burglar not notice my rental car in the driveway? Unless he intends to steal it? Who would want a boring brown Honda? A knock? It’s her damn house; Cécile wouldn’t knock!

Breathe, Princess! Unconsciously I use one of Christopher’s soothing prods. Damn, I hate that nickname. Like I equally hate his Dollface, Babydoll, Angel, Pussycat. Damn, I hate the guy. I haven’t thought of him in weeks. OK, days. Fine, not days, nights. Days I handle with a prompt of my own. Keep moving! I do so now. Matches. Tequila. Cécile’s butcher knife. I make it to the kitchen in record time if not undamaged. Scratching in the night? Just rats, keep going, girl. Hands at chest level I edge along the kitchen counter. Sink on the left means Tequila on the right.

The kitchen layout is simple. Along the right wall comes first, the pantry, then the sink with a window above, followed by a stretch of countertop with Tequila cabinet above, a cupboard underneath containing whatever. Then we have the stove, more of the counter top, no cupboard above, mystery cupboard below, then the fridge. The last stretch of counter top comes with drawers underneath, three wide, four high. The Tequila cupboard squeaks when I open its door. I take the bottle out. Has the front door rattled? I hold my breath. It’s only the wind, silly. Holding the Tequila bottle by its neck as a substitute weapon if I can’t reach the knife, I move down the kitchen until I reach the fridge. Damn, I can’t remember which drawer holds the matches and knives. I fumble to open the closest drawer. My hand feels cords and plastic and wooden thingies. Junk drawer, moving on. The windy draft blowing in feels all too real. Damn. I see a flicker of light as I drop my hand into the second drawer and cut myself. Knife drawer then. Flicker of light goes to the living room. The word penlight pops into my mind as I grope for the matches. Decision time. Weapon or sight? Flicker travels right. My hand goes back for a knife. Big handle. Sharp. I take it out. A fork in the road: flight or fight?

Before I can duck behind the kitchen island, a male voice calls out. Nice to see you, Angel. Flicker hovers over my belly and zigzags slowly to my face. Out of red wine already?

Christopher is the most infuriating man I know, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on the knife. With the penlight blinding me, I can’t see his expression. Probably it’s better that way. I don’t remember inviting you. Such a stupid statement but I have trouble thinking clearly. Decision time once more. Should I knock him out with the Tequila bottle or gulp it down. Mind closing the door?

I follow his light beam−I need to get me one of those penlights−as he closes the door and comes back to stand in front of me, opposite side of the kitchen island. As Christopher pointed out so subtlety, I’m partial as in extremely partial to red wine. Thus, I don’t know much about Tequila, but I’m guessing the bright yellow label with its green Tequila, and bold red Bang Bang letterings are not indicative of its exceptional quality. So is the screwed-on cap. So is the taste. Then again, without salt, lime and a glass of red wine to kill the taste afterward, maybe I’m not truly appreciative of its nuances. Christopher’s a purist; Scotch is his nightcap of choice, so I don’t bother offering him any of the disgusting poison. Now, why does