Taboo Unchained(73)
When the doorbell rings, I rise to my feet with a groan and check the peephole.
Cops.
Hmm.
My mouth twitches until it's resting in its easy, neutral position. Before I answer though, I move over to the bathroom door and check the knob. Unlocked. Invitation or simple mistake? I suppose I don't have the time or luxury to test it at the moment.
I let myself in and close the door quickly behind me, just in time to stifle a gasp from behind the curtain.
“Lucas?”
“The cops are at my door. If you could, please, don't come out until I give the signal.” I don't wait for a response from Robbie – either she'll do as I've asked or I'll be spending the next few weeks of my life in a police/media frenzy where I'll become the ultimate monster, the one I've always hunted and hated but never thought I was. Until Robbie. Maybe for devirginizing her, I should be punished. I tap my fingers against the door and observe Robbie's shadow, just for a single moment. I still see her as innocent, but I definitely do not see her as a child. Perhaps I never did. Perhaps … I was just trying to convince myself otherwise, give myself the ultimate obstacle to seeking out a hidden desire. I want to be eighteen again. I clench my fists together and resist hitting the wall with force, breaking through the drywall and feeling that utter sense of accomplishment that always comes with destruction. Right now, I have more pressing matters.
“Lucas?” Robbie queries, as the bathroom door opens and the steam washes into the living room like fog. “I appreciate it.” I leave before she can say anything else, wishing I was still wearing my robe, so I could look indignant at being disturbed again. With another forceful relaxation of my muscles, I flick open the locks and spread the door wide, inviting curious glances into my home. One thing I've learned from past experience is that opening the door a small crack, peeping through like you've got something to hide, well, that convinces everyone on the other side that you're worth scoping out. It firmly and irrevocably entrenches in their mind that you are, indeed, the bad guy. And I don't want to be the bad guy.
At least not today.
“Good morning?” I ask tentatively, wrinkling my brows together. I don't add the stereotypical and horrendously suspicious 'officers' after the greeting. I don't ask what they're doing here, or even suggest that perhaps they're here because of Roberta Carrell. As the antithesis of normal, I've spent an awful lot of time watching people, observing their behavior. These are the moments where I shine, where my faux normalcy is often far more normal and more comforting than the average person. It's a skill; don't be jealous.
“Hello there, Mr. Carter,” one of the officers says, getting awfully close to the threshold of my door. I'm young, but not too young, handsome, dark-haired. All of these things work against me when it comes to the missing presence of a teenage girl. The only single man in a neighborhood of families and old people? In his eyes, I must be guilty. I notice immediately that his eyes catch on the bathroom door. “Your neighbor, Mr. Carrell, his daughter is missing, and we're setting up a search party, canvassing the neighborhood and talking to anyone that might've seen something.” I nod my head, but don't interrupt. Never, ever interrupt a judge, a police officer, or a doctor, not if you want things to go the way you intend them to. “According to Mr. Carrell, and your fiancée, Audra Holiday, you saw a girl with brown hair pull up in a green Taurus with a boy in the driver's seat.” The officer pauses and looks at me expectantly while his partner sizes up my bookshelf. The one in the spare room has all my real books on it, the things I actually like to read. This one here is all for show, even though I've never needed it before. I knew it would come in handy one day. Classic works of literature sit in a dust free alphabetical world of perfection, their leather covers and gold embossed titles marking them as part of a signature collection. They've never once been read, or even opened, but there they are, marking me as a man who knows his books. Studious. Trustworthy. The second officer's eyes glaze over, and I can see that he's already written me off. Officer Number One, however, is still leery.
“Yes, sir. I was showing my fiancée out.” I pause for a brief second, thanking the heavens above and the hells below that Audra Holiday is a perceptive and intelligent women. Now I just have to make sure I don't screw up anything else that she might've told the police. I glance away, demurely, and laugh a man's laugh. You know the one, the deep chuckle that says, 'Hey, we've both got dicks, so we must be in on something even though we both know we're really not.' “Audra wants everyone to think we're waiting until we're married, so, you know.” I shrug my shoulders and don't explain what they should know.