Torture to Her Soul(5)

I toss the notebook back down when an envelope peeks out of the side of it. Curiously, I pull it out, seeing it's addressed to Karissa from NYU.

It's wrong of me, but I look; I pull out the paper and read through the letter.

Dear Ms. Reed, yada yada, whatever whatever, you lost your scholarship so we're going to need you to pay.

A bill for damn near twenty-five thousand dollars.

I let out a low whistle as I shove the paper back into the envelope, returning it where I found it in the notebook.

No wonder she was in a bad mood.





"Do you want—?"

"Nope."

I stall, mid-question, and stare at where Karissa sits on the couch, notebook on her lap as she watches yet another cooking show. Same shit, different day. I can faintly hear music playing from the earbuds draped around her neck, making it possible to talk to her for the moment.

"Can I at least finish my question before you answer?"

She says nothing, jotting something down that she sees on the screen, acting once again like I don't exist.

Taking a deep breath, I ask, "Do you want to go with me to—?"

"Nope."

I try to push back my frustration, but it comes pouring out of me in a groan.

The woman is unbelievably infuriating.

Shaking my head, I walk out of the den, not bothering to ask for the third time. Grabbing my keys, I head out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

She got to me.

I try not to let her.

I try to stay calm and collected. I'm trained to keep my emotions from showing. But she alone knows how to get under my skin.

Once again, she's my exception.

Always a goddamn exception.

The drive into Manhattan seems to crawl by this afternoon. I crack my knuckles and my neck as I sit in the busy traffic, trying to work the stiffness from my body, tension that seems to grow more and more every day. Instead of getting better, instead of things settling down, it feels like we're stalled at the starting line.

Patience has always been a strong suit of mine—I spent almost two decades tracking down Carmela, waited years to try to get back at Johnny—but I'm nearing my tolerance limit with their daughter.

I head to Greenwich Village, parking the car in a garage near Washington Square, before making my way around the block. NYU student services, on the first floor of the building: Office of the Bursar.

The building is brightly lit, surprisingly busy for it being summertime. I wait a few minutes to be acknowledged, stepping up to a middle-aged woman sitting behind a large desk in the lobby of the office.

"I need to speak to somebody about paying a tuition bill."

The woman starts rambling about how the student can make payment arrangements online, giving me the usual spiel, but I cut her off. "No, I need to make a payment, and I'd like to pay it all. Today."

An hour later I walk back out, twenty-five grand poorer with only a printed out receipt to show for it, the words 'Paid in Full' stamped on the top beside Karissa's name.

It's nearing dusk already when I make my way back to Brooklyn, parking in the driveway of the house. I head inside, the sound of loud music greeting me before I even open the door. I make it only a few steps into the foyer, calling out Karissa's name, when animated laughter cuts through the racket.

It's female, and familiar, but it's not Karissa.

Melody.

My pulse quickens, my fingers twitching at the sudden swell of irritation. I clench my hands into fists to stop them, but it does little to help. I want to squeeze the life out of that laughter, smother the insufferable chatter to make it stop.

She gets under my skin and claws at me.

The noise is coming from the den, the one room I feel most at home. The only fucking place I ever feel safe.

Inviting someone into my house is like letting them touch my food or pour my drinks: for me, the trust is damn near impossible to come by. I've been bugged before, had my phones wiretapped, and it's all too easy for something to slip by, skating in right under my nose. I don't let people into my life, and she opens up my sanctuary to someone I hardly know.

Melody Carmichael. Her father works on Wall Street. Her mother is a homemaker and runs a book club. It's the picture perfect family, but it's an image I don't trust. Deeper, beneath the surface, there's always another story, buried secrets that a man like me knows how to unearth.

There's a downside to everything, a dark side to everyone, and those who willingly walk in the shadows are a hell of a lot more convincing than those who only acknowledge the sunshine.

My best friend shot me in the chest, but at least he had the decency to look me in the eyes when he did it.

I avoid the den and head to the kitchen instead, seeking out a strong drink to calm my nerves, but my footsteps falter right inside the doorway. It's an utter disaster. Dishes and trash are everywhere, pans still on the stove with leftover food stuck to them. It smells grotesquely burnt, another failed dinner, this one abandoned based on the half-filled pizza boxes on the counter beside the charred mess.