Scarlet Stone, page 11
With a quick tug like I’m doing a big reveal, I slide the shower curtain to the side. Inside the bath is a black footlocker trunk with a heavy padlock on the front.
Close the curtain and walk away, Scarlet. My brain knows the right thing to do.
Not my room.
Not my trunk.
Not my business.
Maybe it’s where he plans to keep my body when he cuts me up into six manageable pieces: legs, arms, torso, head.
“You’re losing it,” I say, rolling my eyes as I slide the curtain closed. “Don’t cross that line.” Vocalizing my voice of reason seems to help. I’ve made it back downstairs. It’s time for my walk so I’m not late to Yimin’s.
I mist a few of my plants by the window and think about the trunk.
I shove my feet into my trainers and think about the trunk.
I grab a bottled water and think about the trunk.
“Fuck it.”
My name is Scarlet Stone and I would stick my hand in a biscuit barrel of poisonous snakes on the off chance that there might be one biscuit left.
Before reason has a chance to slay my deadly curiosity, I’m already ten seconds away from having the padlock removed. Daniel used to call me a thief. I preferred philanthropist. Perspective is a funny thing.
“Theo, if you don’t want me to get into here, then you really should invest in something more secure than a discount shop padlock.” I can talk to myself all I want, make excuses for my really bad behavior—even if justifying breaking the rules is ingrained in my DNA—but it still doesn’t make this right. If I’m completely honest, short a lock triggering a bomb, there is nothing he could use to keep me out of this trunk.
The good news? As I ease open the lid, I don’t find a cut-up body. However, as I sift through the content, I wonder if the former would be less disturbing.
“Oh my god, Theo …” I whisper.
Guns.
Knives.
Photos.
Newspaper articles.
“What. Are. You. Doing?”
University Of Kentucky’s Professor Kathryn Reed Found Dead in Her Home
I skim over the words. Murder. Survived by a son, Theodore Reed.
Another article.
Brian Reed Dies of Self-inflicted Gunshot Wound
His parents died. Suicide. Survived by a son, Theodore Reed.
Emotion hardens like a golf ball lodged in my throat. My hands feather over each sentence. I can’t believe the words jumping off the page.
Braxton Ames arrested in the murder of Kathryn Reed.
Another article.
Anonymous donor pays for University of Kentucky Professor, Kathryn Reed’s Funeral and donates two million dollars to memorial fund …
I need to walk away. In another life, one where I didn’t have a closely-estimated date with death, one where I still had internet access, one where I felt invested in the outcome of whatever this is … in that life, Theodore Reed’s secrets would consume me.
I need to walk away.
“There’s always your next life,” I mutter to myself as I close and lock the lid of the trunk as well as my painful curiosity.
OH MY GOD!
I’m dead. There is a hand over my mouth, my chest feels like a grenade just exploded, and a large arm wrapped around my waist has my back pinned to a solid body. My cancer must be pissed off it’s not going to get the chance to steal my life.
“Why are you in here?” The whisper at my ear is the Theodore Reed from my first day on Tybee Island. It’s the spawn of revenge and murder. This embrace holds no passion and even less of a promise that my lungs will ever receive oxygen again.
The calloused paw over my mouth prevents me from answering as my tears spring free. He’s going to kill me. My instincts were right.
“Are you going to scream?” The edge to his voice makes my knees tremble.
I shake my head.
His hand slides from my mouth. “Did you open it?”
I swallow back wave after wave of fear as he keeps my back pinned to his chest. “No,” I whisper, unable to find my true voice. “It’s locked.”
“You’re lying.”
“Everything is a lie.” My voice of reason is so much slower than my vocal impulsiveness.
“Open it.”
“I don’t have the—”
“OPEN THE FUCKING LOCK!”
Normal people who live sheltered lives would convince themselves that they could never die at the hands of a lover. I’ve known men who have killed their wives, mothers of their children, because they opened the wrong drawer in a wardrobe or arrived home from the supermarket thirty minutes too early. I hold no illusions that Theodore Reed won’t kill me.
I open my fisted hand to reveal the pick I used. His body stiffens against mine, like in spite of the truth he knew, the confirmation that I did in fact invade his privacy still sends a small wave of anger—maybe even disappointment—coursing through his body. He loosens his hold on me.
I step forward and unlock the trunk, but I don’t open it.
Remorse. It’s all I feel right now. My journey to find the best part of my soul and live out that life for as long as I have left has failed. I am a thief. Theo was right. Curiosity will kill the cat.
I can’t bring myself to turn and look at him. The last memory I have of his face was the grin of appreciation for my naked body standing in front of him. It held something innocent, beautiful, and worth holding on to forever. That’s the only memory I need.
“Open it.”
I do. It’s not worth my effort to look shocked at the contents. He knows I know.
Easing my hand over the edge, waiting to see if he’ll stop me, I reach for the handgun. Why isn’t he stopping me? He doesn’t move, not one inch. Maybe he’s already holding a gun to my head and I just haven’t turned to see it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around the gun. I’ve never held a gun. My father never wanted me to be that thief. I close my eyes, letting my palm acclimate to the cold metal grip. “I shouldn’t have crossed that line.” My eyes pinch tight, wringing more tears out as I lift the gun. “I’ve loved every minute of our lie.” My finger curls around the trigger as the blunt edge of the muzzle kisses my temple.
Every bad thing I’ve ever done, every failure, every moment of grief, every word of my terminal cancer diagnosis and stolen future hits me like a torrent of negativity that pulls me under, numbing my senses.
Fuck you, cancer.
I pull the trigger.
Nothing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He rips the gun from my hand.
My back collides with the wall as my steps falter. I blink through my tears that blur Theo’s face marred with utter horror—wild eyes, mouth agape. He shakes me, hands gripping my arms to the point of pain.
Pain.
I feel it in unforgiving waves.
I’m still alive.
Oh. My. God …
Did I just—
“What the fuck did you just do? Jesus …” His hands go from my arms to fisting my hair as his forehead presses to mine.
I’ve never heard such agony in his voice.
“Did you…” each word seems to rip from his throat “…did you think it was loaded?”
Reality shatters this out-of-body experience—the glass box that separated me from life. “Y-Yes,” I whisper.
I wanted to die. For one second—I wanted to die.
Pain.
Love.
Anger.
Regret.
For one moment … it was all too much. I wanted out. I. Wanted. To. Die.
What’s happening to me?
His nostrils flare with each breath that washes over my face. Pressing a hand to the wall next to me, he pushes off and turns toward the trunk. “You don’t get to fucking take your own life.” He riffles through the contents.
Numbness. For one second it swallowed me up. Now, I’m left drowning in an ocean of shame.
My blank stare lands on his hands shoving a loaded clip into the gun. In the next blink, he slams me back against the wall. The impact punches the breath from my lungs. Theo presses the gun to my temple much harder than I had done.
“I take your life. You don’t get the fucking choice. Do you understand?” The devil dances in his eyes, cold as the metal pressed to my head. His jaw clenches while his whole body shakes, even his hand quivers as he digs the gun into my skin.
Theo or cancer?
Cancer is so unoriginal. I choose Theo.
“Then pull the trigger.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, muscles pulsing along his arms and up his neck. “Go.” His hand falls limp to his side, the gun dangles from his finger. “GO!”
I suck in a breath, suffering more from the sight of this man—eyes shut and chin down—than I would have had he pulled the trigger.
I turn and move toward the door with an unsteady gait.
“We never talk of what’s in the trunk ever again or else …” He leaves the end hanging in the air.
I nod once then keep walking.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My name is Scarlet Stone. I think modern medicine is miraculous—as well as overrated, corrupt, and sometimes deadly. I’m not sure when doctors began to focus on treating the symptoms instead of the root cause of disease. Whenever that was, they could no longer abide by their oath to “do no harm.”
I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror anymore. By all predictions, I will die in about a month. Even if this life doesn’t give me my formal eviction in thirty days, Nolan will.
Theo works on our place in between his other projects, and he seems to be on schedule with the upstairs renovations nearing completion.
The trunk? I let it go. I don’t know what it all means. The ‘Kathryn’ tattooed on his arm is his mother. She was murdered. I should be dead too. I pulled the trigger and the click of not dying won’t stop replaying in my head. Even the stubborn daughter of the great Oscar Stone can admit when she is wrong. Pulling the trigger was wrong.
My purpose in life? I haven’t completely figured it out, but I’m getting closer to acknowledging my existence—albeit shorter than I’d hoped—means something. Dancing with death for months reveals many secrets of life. I don’t have kids or even that many friends, but if I did, I’d want my lasting impression on them to be this: Every life matters, but never one more than another. Sometimes silence holds more meaning than words. And love … it’s infinitely impossible to define, but unequivocally, without any doubt, the reason we are here.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Theo announces as he slides on his trousers, no underwear.
Sex has been a constant between us for the past few months. He didn’t pull the trigger either, but that night I swear he tried to fuck me an inch from my life. It was punishing, demanding, controlling, and life-changing. As much as he tried to hide it, I felt every ounce of his pain over what happened that day.
I can’t bring myself to address the depression that’s been brought on by my diagnosis. It’s not just the diagnosis; it’s Theo. Accepting death was easier after leaving Daniel and Oscar—severing the ties that fed my guilt over wanting to live out my days on my own terms. Theo makes me want to live all my days, even the ones I cannot have—more than I wanted to live them for Daniel or Oscar—and that is too much to take.
Still … it’s just been sex mixed with a growing web of lies that serves as a nice barrier to the truth. It’s fucked-up in so many ways, yet equally perfect. The one truth we share is that everything is a lie.
I slip on my shirt and pull up my knickers as I stand. “Where are you going?”
Theo glances over his shoulder, his bronze beard a bit longer, his blue eyes a bit softer but they still hold an edge of warning.
I shrug. “Lie to me.”
After studying me for a few moments, his focus returns to his zip, yanking it up while he clears his throat. “Kentucky.”
A chill slithers along my skin, awakening the curiosity that I’ve suppressed for months since finding the trunk. “Want company?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
My grunt echoes with sarcasm. “Yes. I need to firm up things with the caterer, do the final fitting for my dress, and stop fucking my bearded housemate.”
Theo runs a hand through his tangled hair, walking away from me. “Well check ‘stop fucking your bearded housemate’ off your list. We’re done.”
“Fine. I’ll call the caterer.”
“You don’t have a phone.” He slams the bathroom door.
“Fuck you.” I scowl at the door.
He’s right. I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a caterer or a fiancé either. I barely have a life.
*
My mum died of ovarian cancer, but not before they nearly gutted her on an operating table, injected poison into her veins, and charred her inside and out with radiation.
Cut.
Poison.
Burn.
That was my earliest lesson in cancer, a firsthand account from Oscar. Maybe I haven’t seen enough miracles in my life to put my entire existence in the hands of companies whose livelihood depends on treating not curing cancer.
Mum was declared NED “No Evidence of Disease.” My father took her to Italy to celebrate while my nana watched me. I was eighteen months old.
Modern medicine cured her. Cue the confetti.
Six months later, they found cancer in her liver, lungs, and brain. Thirty-seven days later, she died. I don’t remember that but my mum’s death has played out in the depths of my father’s grief-stricken eyes since my earliest age of remembrance. He didn’t want her to have the chemo in the first place.
Cancer is the effect of weaknesses in the body, not the cause of it. My mum obliterated the last shred of her immune system with carcinogens. Someone—anyone with a spark of true intelligence—has to see the irony in treating cancer with carcinogens. My opinion is wildly unpopular. Does it matter? No. It’s just my opinion and it only should matter to me.
My mum wanted the treatment. As much as I feel cheated of a life with her, I could never blame her for taking the path in life she chose to take. It’s a bittersweet celebration of freedom.
“Scarlet Stone,” the nurse calls my name.
The air reeks of disinfectant and the temperature is much cooler than necessary. The setting supports my belief that humans go to the doctor to die, not to live. If they’re going for the modern-day mortuary feel, mission accomplished.
I giggle. The timing is terrible, but I can’t help it. I imagine the nurse saying, “Scarlet Stone, we’ll fit you for your coffin now.” Maybe the cancer has spread to my brain. At least I could blame my crazy thoughts on that instead of having to completely claim them as my own.
“Let’s get you weighed, and then I’ll have you deposit a urine sample in this cup and place it on the shelf in the restroom.”
The nurse frowns at my weight. How professional of her.
I wee. Find my room. Undress. And sit on the folded gown.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Yes,” I respond.
The doctor enters with his head down, focused on his electronic tablet. When did bedside manner become optional?
“Scarlet, I’m Doctor—” He looks up, then down, then turns.
“Sorry, do you need help with your gown?”
“Nope. If your medical degree is legit, then I don’t think my naked body should be an issue. Don’t act like you’re not going to ask me to recline back and spread my legs.”
“Ms. Stone, it’s protocol for you to—”
“Protocol schmotocol … I’m not hitting on you. I simply think the paper-gown peekaboo game is utterly ridiculous. Let’s just get on with this.”
I can’t explain my behavior, because I’m not a nudist. The only good reason I have for making this poor man feel uncomfortable is Theo. Since he tried to dismiss everything between us, I’ve sort of run out of give-a-fucks.
He turns and clears his throat.
However, it is quite ironic how I’m the one who feels most vulnerable with that stupid gown on, yet he’s the one who is clearly uncomfortable without me wearing it.
“So you’re here to … check on your cancer?” His finger traces along the screen, repeating my Reason For Visit verbatim.
“Yes.”
“I don’t have any of your medical records. Have you had a cancer diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Well, without your records, I can only run through standard procedure: physical exam, blood and urine tests—”
“Give me your tablet.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t—”
I hop off the table. There are probably not enough days left in my life to learn to play by the rules, but that’s what I’m here to find out. He steps back until the wall meets him. I’m seriously questioning his medical degree.
“You can’t do this,” he protests as I snatch the tablet from him.
“I’m here to check on my cancer…” I access the internet “…and you need my medical records…” my finger eats up the screen, making haste with my mildly-illegal hack into my own medical records “…so I’m getting you my records so we don’t have to reschedule and wait for all the … protocol to be followed. Things run much more smoothly when we look at rules and laws as recommendations. Helpful—or sometimes not—suggestions.”
“Ms. Stone, this is completely un—”
“Here.” I hand him the tablet.
He smooths over his dark hair and adjusts his thick round glasses before he takes the tablet. I ease my bare bum back onto the table and fold my hands in my lap while he reads in silence for several minutes.
“How do you feel?” He finally looks up with a deep line of confusion along his brow.
“Amazing. That’s just it. I haven’t felt this good in…” I shake my head “…forever.”
