Devil You Know Page 4

  The sports blares on the TV in the living room. He’s unaffected. Nothing about my misery resonates within his empty soul. How can people be so cruel, so callous, so selfish? I make my way across the room, heading for the curtains before I realize what my mind has already decided to do. I pull the fabric aside with two fingers, and stare through the slim gap at the lights next door.

  I may as well be watching a foreign movie; I can understand the sentiment in my action, but damned if any of it makes any sense.

  I’ve met him once.

  He has my dog.

  Why does that make me feel this . . . this warmth toward him? What on earth gives me the illusion that he’ll be the one to help me? Sure, I saw kindness in his eyes, a gentle understanding, but haven’t I seen that plenty of times before? And when has kindness ever helped me? A thousand people could care for my situation, feel my pain, but if none of those people have the gall to step in where they aren’t welcome, then I may as well turn my head and forget they looked past the shell to the broken woman barely holding it together.

  Shaking my head, I let the heavy drapes fall shut, and scuff the two short steps to our bed. The place I’m supposed to feel most rested. I guess in my unconscious, sleeping state I probably do, but on the other hand, our bed is the place that signifies the most pain when I dare to delve deep enough.

  Because every damn day I wake up in this bed with the dread of what the following eighteen hours will bring. And every damn day I don’t do a fucking thing to change it.

  I live my groundhog day, wearing my cowardice like a badge of honor.

  Pathetic.

  Something’s got to change.

  If only it were me who had the guts to do it.

  THE DAYS fall by, the weeks pass, and before I know it I’ve become Dylan’s wife again. The role fits me like a favorite pair of jeans—comfortable, and reliable.

  I left my job.

  Dylan felt it gave me too much of an attitude, socializing with other adults he doesn’t know. My recreation time from this hellish prison has been revoked.

  I roll with the punches . . . literally. His violence is at an all-time low, or is that a high? Some days I wonder if he knows—if he suspects anything. Some days I’m certain he’s seen me, heard me, but then others he ignores me, as if I’m no more than a ghost in my own home, and I feel that double-edged peace that come with invisibility.

  The most magical thing happens one morning. We talk—my neighbor and I.

  The first time I hear him call my name I’m positive I’ve truly lost my mind. Dylan is getting ready for work, and I’m dutifully hanging out my second load of washing for the day. Yeah, I do a lot of washing. I wash the sheets every day—it’s easier than going to bed and smelling the stale, sweaty scent of my fear, or Deandra’s perfume all over again.

  My hand is raised mid-strike with a peg, when my neighbor calls my name again.

  “Jane.”

  I look back over my shoulder, shake my head and continue—positive I finally have voices in my head to keep me company.

  “Jane.”

  It comes through as more of a pronounced “Jenn,” when he hisses it through a knot in the fence paling.

  I look at the wood, hopeful it might decide to spell out an answer in the color of its grain as to whether I should reply. Predictably enough, it does nothing to help.

  “What?” I whisper back, sure I’m talking to a figment of my imagination.

  “Are you hurt anywhere?”

  Now, normally a person starting a conversation with that wee stunner would warrant me raising an eyebrow, and wondering about their state of mind. But given he lives next door, and he no doubt hears our close-to-nightly sparring matches, I could forgive him.

  “No. Why?”

  Nothing. I peg another sheet, stealing glances at the fence every so often.

  “I hadn’t seen you in a few days, and it’s been weeks since I took Rocco.”

  And? Does he expect me to pop over with scones each Friday?

  “What did you expect? I can’t be seen over there.”

  “I know.” A long sigh. “I wanted to check on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pegs in my right hand, and a pillow-case in my left, I watch that fence for a solid five minutes before I feel sure enough he’s left. I hang out the rest of the load, running our brief interaction over and over in my head until the words take on a meaning not found in the Oxford Dictionary.

  “Are you hurt anywhere?” becomes “Will you survive?”

  “I hadn’t seen you,” becomes “I’ve watched for you.”

  And “I wanted to check on you,” is the worst of all. My overactive imagination changes that beauty to “One day I’ll take you away from this.”

  I vow as I walk inside with the empty laundry basket that I’ll never read a romance novel again.

  They’re seriously fucking with my expectations of the world.

  • • • • •

  FOUR DAYS later, he speaks to me again.

  “Jane.”

  I juggle the handful of tomatoes I’ve picked from the plants that cling to the side of our garden shed.

  “Jesus. Stop sneaking up on me.”

  “Would you rather I came to the front door?” the fence replies.

  He has a point. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “That’s not what I was going to ask.”

  It wasn’t? “I’m listening.”

  “Can you get away from the house at all? On your own?”

  Snuffles sound near my feet, and I can imagine how Rocco will be doing his utmost to jam his nose through the tiny gap under the palings. “Does groceries on a Thursday count?”

  Midnight Savior chuckles on the other side of the fence. I swear there’s a part of me in a puddle at my feet. “Of course. Where do you shop?”

  “The market on Garrison.” Why is my heart racing? I look at my hands, the pink flush on the edge of my palms indicating I’m not imagining the clamminess.

  “I’ll see you there. What time?”

  “Nine-ish?”

  The swish of grass under his feet, and the light rattle of the catch on Rocco’s collar tell me which way they’ve gone. I stand there, shamelessly looking at that fence as I imagine him and Rocco on the other side, walking away from me. Every step he takes deflates the little swell of happiness I clutched onto whilst talking to him. Every step he takes brings me back to the world about me: my house, my yard, my husband. The awareness raises my nerves, somewhat.

  What does he want to see me for? What is it that can’t be said through the fence? God, he probably wants to ask me to take Rocco back. How long did I expect him to keep him for? What kind of idiot am I, abusing another’s goodwill like that?

  “Jane! What are you doing?”

  Chills prickle over my flesh. “Coming, honey.”

  Dylan stands, hands on hips, and positively glowers at me. Did he see me talking? Does he know? “My lunch won’t make itself,” he barks.

  No—it won’t.

  Pity.

  TO SAY Thursday feels like any other day in my shitty existence would be a blatant lie. I woke up this morning humming. For the first time in as long as I can remember I have something to look forward to.

  Nerves swirl throughout me as I approach my regular supermarket. It’s a family-run store, and I know the place like the back of my hand. I know where everything Dylan likes is shelved, and if you ask me, I can probably tell you their prices, too.

  Usually, the trip is done with such robotic precision that I’ve found myself unpacking the bags at home and staring at a can in my hand, trying to remember when I picked it up.

  Today though, I’m alert. I’m wired. I’m full of anticipation.

  Because he’ll be here.

  I do my best to scan the parking lot and entrance as I approach without looking over-eager. A piece of my hope chips away with every empty sweep, and as I reach for the blue handle of a trolley, my mind begins its swit
ch back over to autopilot.

  “Starting without me?”

  The simple lull of his words jolts me back to my senses with such force I have to close my eyes to stop a damn head-rush taking me over.

  “You okay?” He gently touches my arm, and ducks his head down to make eye contact.

  “Fine,” I lie. “Probably need to drink more water is all.”

  “Yeah.” He nods, his scrutinizing stare saying he totally doesn’t buy my bullshit for a second. “It is pretty dry today.”

  “Are you . . .?” I gesture to the trolleys.

  He shakes his head. “No. Only here to see you.”

  A blush peppers my face. I can’t get through the turnstile and put him behind me fast enough. He catches up when I pause to get bananas, and takes the helm of the trolley.

  “Did you need to talk to me about something?” I ask, avoiding looking at him at all costs. One look in those eyes, and shame will render me speechless—shame at the impure thoughts I’ve been having about a man other than my husband.

  Who do I think he is? My Prince Charming? My knight in shining armor?

  “Yeah, I do need to talk to you, actually.”

  He pushes the trolley beside me for a while in silence. I place my items in as he follows. No way will I force the subject. Whatever he wants to say, it doesn’t appear easy, and I’ve never been the type to welcome bad news.

  We round the corner to the meat section, and he absently runs his finger along the front of the metal shelving before he speaks. “I found somewhere for you to stay.”

  The chicken breasts in my hand drop to the display in their cling-film-wrapped tray. “Sorry?”

  “I found you somewhere to stay,” he repeats. “If you’re ready to leave.”

  My eyes glaze over. I stare at the labels on the packages of meat, but nothing registers. Noise mutes around me while I retract into my thoughts.

  He found me somewhere to stay.

  I can’t get past the fact he went so far as to do that.

  “Are you going to tell me what you think?” he urges.

  “I, uh . . .” What? Am too much of a coward to try? Am I too beaten to think for myself? Don’t believe there’s a happy ending to my story? “I mean, it sounds wonderful, but—”

  “—you’re afraid to. I get it. Maybe I should have talked to you about it first.”

  I pick up the package of chicken again, and place it in the trolley. “Even if you asked first, I would have said the same thing.”

  He looks over the meat as I watch him. I can’t tell from the expression on his face if I’ve insulted him by saying ‘no’, or disappointed him. Either would be as bad, so what does it matter? He picks up a tray of steak, and hands it over. “This looks like a good deal.”

  I take the offered meat, and our hands linger for a moment. Instead of looking at what he passes to me, I make a mistake—I look at him. Our eyes lock, and I can’t look away.

  “Jane?” What the?

  My flesh pebbles, and I drop the meat into the trolley as fast as my neighbor releases it.

  “Is he bothering you?” Dylan steps up, and places a possessive arm around my shoulders. Why is he here? Why today?

  “No, not at all,” I stutter.

  Neighbor looks us over, and turns his focus to Dylan. “Your wife here reached for the same steak as I did. I was simply letting her have what she wants.”

  The double innuendo isn’t lost on me. Like the way he hissed ‘wife’ through clenched teeth wasn’t either.

  “You don’t look like you’re doing any shopping,” Dylan scathes. “Where’s your basket?”

  “Where’s yours?” Neighbor snaps back.

  I stiffen in Dylan’s hold, ridiculous thoughts racing through my head, telling me Dylan knows everything; that he knows where Rocco is.

  “Anyway, all yours now.” Neighbor takes a step back and turns, heading farther into the supermarket.

  “I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” I tell Dylan while he drops me like a hot potato.

  “Broken cooler in the butchery,” he replies in dull notes.

  Dylan walks away without so much as a ‘see you tonight, honey,’ or a peck on the cheek for his adoring wife. What a fucking farce that would have been. I stand and watch him walk across to the deli, and talk to a woman who lets him behind the counter.

  “Hey, Jane. Long time, no see.”

  “Hey, Patrick.” I smile forcibly as Dylan’s work buddy passes by with a toolbox, and presumably parts for their job.

  Damn Dylan doing industrial fridge repairs. Damn me for telling Neighbor to meet me at the usual supermarket.

  Damn me for saying ‘no’.

  I carry on my way, equal parts angry, and feeling cheated. Neighbor passes me by several aisles later, carrying a loaf of bread, and a bag of dog food. He doesn’t say a thing—only eyes me with what I can place as a mixture of pity and contempt as he passes by.

  I finish my shopping with a familiar sense of loneliness. Once again, my life is hollow. Once again, I’m on my own.

  Once again, Dylan won.

  THE GRAVY is on point, the meat tender, and the vegetables smell divine as the steam wafts from the water I pour down the sink. He may not deserve it, but when a home doesn’t bring an ounce of joy, a person can start to find happiness in the most mundane of things.

  Dylan’s car pulls up the drive as I reach for the large spoon to dish up the peas. This can go one of two ways: either he’ll sulk in the door, and grunt when I ask how his day was, or he’ll flip the switch at what he saw at the supermarket, and my efforts at preparing a tasty dinner will go to waste.

  Given that it’s been a little more than a week since I had trouble getting out of bed without pain, I’m going for option B.

  The front door slams into its enclosure a little too hard, and my reflexes have me half a foot off the floor. The pace of my heart is only matched by the pace of his words as he mumbles to himself, flopping down in the armchair, and immediately switching the sports on.

  God, I hope his bloody team wins tonight.

  I go about my business, setting the table, and plating our meals. He coughs, and smacks his lips loud enough for me to hear—his not-so-subtle way of saying he’s waiting on a beer. I open a cold one, and place it on the table with his meal. After last time I fed him in the lounge ending with the food on the floor, I take my chances at the table every night. I walk to the door that connects the dining room with the living room.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  He nods once, and I turn, returning to the table to take my seat. Dylan pulls his chair out at the opposite end, and glares at the bottle of beer.

  “What’s this?” he asks, hand outstretched to the green glass, dripping with condensation.

  “Your beer.” I sit like the good wife, hands placed in my lap, under the edge of the table.

  He slumps into the seat, and his arms slam down on the table on either side of his plate with enough force to rattle my cutlery. “What fucking good is it now? Why didn’t you bring it to me as soon as I got in?”

  “I didn’t think you’d have time to drink it before dinner.”

  He stares at me, his eyes like fire, and I burn under their intensity. “Wouldn’t have time?” He nods slowly.

  My palms grow hot and itchy in my lap.

  “Now it’ll be fucking warm by the time I’ve eaten. How am I supposed to drink, and eat at the same time?”

  Most of the population manages it.

  I say nothing.

  “What a fucking waste.” He leans back in the chair.

  My feet push harder into the floor.

  “I’m going to drink it now, at my own pace, and when I’m done you’re going to cook me a fresh meal, hot and ready to eat. You aren’t going to reheat this one.”

  I look at the food on my plate, and run an inventory. I’ve got the vegetables, and the makings for the gravy. I don’t have more meat.

  I don’t have the meat.


  “I don’t have any more steak.”

  Why the fuck did I choose to cook the steak? His eyes widen, and he leans forward with both hands braced on the edge of the table.

  “You cooked me the fucking steak? After I caught you flirting with that guy today?”

  “I wasn’t . . .” I stop myself before I can be accused of starting an argument. “I didn’t think.”

  “No. You never think, Jane. For fuck’s sake, woman. Are you trying to insult me?” His face is twisted into the kind of rage that precedes his disagreements getting physical.

  My clothes feel too tight.

  “Get over here.”

  My chair staggers across the carpet, seemingly as hesitant as I am to obey his command. I make my way to him beside the rectangular table, and stop inches shy of his end.

  “Closer.”

  Two steps.

  “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never met him before.”

  I think of anyone but our neighbor. Hollywood stars, politicians—hopefully if I can trick my mind into thinking of people I truly haven’t met then I can make this look convincing.

  “I’ve never met him.”

  He lashes out, taking my wrist in his grasp. As much as I try not to let the burn of his fingers affect me, the corner of my mouth twitches with the pain.

  “You’re a fucking liar.”

  “I swear, Dylan. I’ve never seen him before.”

  He tugs me so I stumble closer. My thighs knock into his knees. “Are you sure?”

  The cool menace with which he asks the question has my mind doing back-flips, trying to deduce if he knows that I’ve met our neighbor before, and he’s testing me. Backing out of my lie now would ensure my fate, so I run with the chance that he doesn’t know, and that he’s bluffing me. At least then I have a chance at getting away with less impact.

  “Positive.”

  “He doesn’t look familiar at all?” Dylan’s gaze narrows.

  I swallow thickly. The sound resonates in the room.

  “Not in the slightest?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t quite hear that,” he taunts.

  “No,” I say louder, with more conviction.

  “So you’re telling me you had no idea that guy is our neighbor?”