“She betrayed me,” I seethe.
“Sure. Sure, she did. They all do, right?”
“They do,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“You ever wonder if it’s you that makes that happen?” he asks, pacing lightly in front of me.
“No,” I say.
“Convenient,” he says, ticking his head to the side.
“Yeah, well, at least she didn’t cry and whine like your sister,” I say, narrowing my eyes. But before I have a chance to look up and see what effect my words have had I feel something hit me in the back of the neck and it snaps. My head lolls hard to the side and my body slumps to the floor, hands still anchored. As I die all I can think is that I’m pretty sure he hit me with a goddamn tire iron.
°
There’s something about finding out you’re a god that makes you want to go see your ex-boyfriend. And I don’t even mean just for bragging rights. More in the hopes that someone can bring you down to earth and maybe pet your hair and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. I try to resist going as I don’t want to further confuse the issue, but even as a supposed god, Clark’s pull on me is impressive. I miss him. Especially now that he knows about me and that there are no secrets between us, the draw of him is greater and more perfect than ever. So when I get back into the city, instead of going straight to Ben and Liesel’s, as I should, I make a stop at his apartment.
I land on the roof, asphalt and tar pulling up a bit in my wake, I still really need to work on these landings. The second I hit Clark’s floor pins shoot through my entire body alerting me to something horrible. My stomach lurches hard to the right. I put a hand on the wall, steadying myself, trying to clear my head and prepare myself for whatever horror might be awaiting me. As I turn the corner to Clark’s apartment I see his front door is pristine, as if nothing in the world is or ever has been wrong. I walk up to his perfect door and turn the knob hard to the right, snapping the locking mechanism inside. I push the door open slowly, willing everything to be as pristine inside.
The apartment is destroyed. It looks like my worst nightmare.
It looks like Lola.
A small cry escapes my throat as I survey the damage – furniture overturned and torn, television and window smashed, a lamp, on, but tangled in its own cord, lying helplessly on the floor, broken glass littering the hardwood like diamonds.
I’m moving slowly toward his bedroom when the room explodes into bullets. They sink into my back by the dozens and as seamlessly as if they’re imbedding themselves in a piece of putty. I go down hard, my face smashing into the glass-covered floor with a wet, crunchy thud.
I wake up to Joan’s rough tongue licking my cheek, her plaintive mews in my ear. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but the apartment isn’t swarming with police yet, so that’s good. I push myself up off the glassy floor, creating a thousand more tiny cuts in the process. Joan skitters back from me and I crack my neck. I think it must have broken on impact with the hardwood. Bullets and shell casings litter the floor around me. I feel my back and thighs – they’re healing fast, but could use some help. I hear shouting in the hallway and sirens in the distance. I have to get out of here, but first I have to figure out how she found him. I go into the bedroom looking for any clue as to what might have happened. But everything is so ransacked that I can’t make sense of it. On my way into the bathroom, I trip on one of my own sneakers and as I do I see something sticking out of the sole. I pull back on the rubber and edge out a small flat microchip with a wire attached to it. Even I have seen enough television to know that it’s a trace. How long have I had this? And why? I curse myself for doing something as meaningless as changing shoes at his apartment the last time I was here, a simple act that may have signed his death warrant. I take the trace to the bathroom and flush it. A quick check of my current clothing reveals no other surprises and a quick check of the apartment reveals no bodies of people I love.
I’m about to flee the apartment via the fire escape when I realize that whoever tracked me could have been tracking me when I went to Jasper’s or back home. I search frantically for the house phone, which has been yanked clean off the wall. But Clark’s mobile phone is still here, sitting inside his nightstand drawer, charging innocently. I dial Jasper’s home number in Philadelphia. He answers on the third ring, and his voice sounds like music.
“Hello?”
“Jasper? Thank god. Are you okay?”
“Who is this?” he asks, more annoyed that anything else.
“Oh, sorry – it’s Bonnie – are you okay?”