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Is it so bad to say I didn’t want to pass that energy to someone else if I didn’t have to? This Jo woman seemed nice, and I didn’t want her turning into a drunk and choking on vomit too.
Certain about what I had to do next, I turned to Dominic as he finished unbuttoning his shirt and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
TWENTY-TWO
DOMINIC
Dominic doesn’t go back home that night. He’d received a notification that someone rang the doorbell and when he checked the doorbell camera, he saw a woman he couldn’t stand being around. His mother-in-law, Naomi Hart, in a big banana hat. He wasn’t sure what Jo’s mother was doing in North Carolina or what she wanted, but one thing was for certain. He did not want to see her.
Instead, he lied to Jolene and sent her a text saying he had business to finish and would likely be all night. He doesn’t, really, and instead goes to Fox Trot for some drinks and to read over his speech. He needs to decompress after the week he’s had. Fox Trot is the only place around that isn’t open to the general public. You must have a membership to join, so not many people here bother him. Most of the members venture into Fox Trot to do the same thing he does: drink and avoid socializing. That’s why he likes it.
He does have to go to Greensboro tomorrow afternoon to show his face for some marathon in support of heart disease, and for all Jo knows, he’s decided to leave tonight so that he can be better prepared tomorrow. He’s glad he at least keeps extra clothes stored at Executive Mansion. Might as well make use of the place somehow.
As he sits at a table sipping bourbon, he receives a text from Boaz: No face ID in NC. Will check NOLA.
Good thing Boaz is onto the witch. Comforted by the update, Dominic sinks into the back of the burgundy leather bench, taking another long sip of his liquor. He’d contemplated the idea of Boaz blackmailing him but realized it wouldn’t benefit Boaz at all. He was the one who’d done the dirty work, not him, and Dominic was willing to lie if it meant saving his own ass.
After replying OK to Boaz, Dominic opens the Instagram app and logs into the account he uses under a fake name. He doesn’t post on this account, and his other is his official governor account, but Melissa handles that more than he does so he doesn’t bother with it. His fake profile doesn’t even have a picture, but that’s perfect for when he needs to check things out, like the profile of that Eden woman. What did she say her username was again?
Dominic clears his throat as he types the name goddesswitch into the search bar. It yields some results but none of them are her. He taps a finger against the edge of the phone, thinking. Then he types in mysticgoddess. Still, none of the users show Eden.
“I’m on Instagram under the name mysticcgoddess. Two c’s.”
Eden’s voice runs through his mind again, and he types in the previous username, but with two c’s this time.
“There you are,” he murmurs under his breath. She’s the only person on the app with that username. He taps her profile, glad it’s public. The profile picture is an unsmiling, moody selfie. Her lips are a dark plum and her hair is a wild afro. Black eyeliner is heavy around her eyes.
He scrolls to check out her pictures and mixed between posts about the benefits of her teas is a photo of him. Dominic’s heart beats faster as he taps his photo. It’s him on the stage at the rally he had two weeks ago. He’s speaking to the crowd, microphone gripped in hand. He wore the Carolina blue shirt and white tie that day. Jolene picked out the shirt. If this was taken two weeks ago, this woman has been lingering for a while.
The photo is shocking, but it’s Eden’s caption that makes him uneasy.
THIS MAN IS A FRAUD.
“What?” he gripes. He scrolls to see if there are more photos of him but there aren’t. Aggravated, he logs back out of the app and drops the phone on the table.
Who the hell does this woman think she is? He’s the fraud? She’s the one pretending to be some voodoo tea-selling witch. None of what she believes in is real.
He rolls his eyes, picking up his drink and taking a big swallow. His carries his gaze toward the bar, focusing on a woman in a tight-fitting maroon dress. She’s standing at the counter, slightly bent over as she speaks to the bartender. Dominic’s dick pulses to life as he studies the woman’s ass. He takes another slow sip as the woman finds her table. When she sits, her eyes connect with his and a smile sweeps over her lips. A sigh escapes him as he peels his gaze away. He’s promised himself to be good. To stay out of trouble. Dealing with other women is why he’s in the mess he’s in right now.
He polishes off the bourbon, collects his iPad, and leaves the bar after dropping a tip on the table. As he approaches his truck, he notices something stuck beneath one of the windshield wipers. The sheet of white paper flaps with the breeze and his throat instantly closes in on itself when he spots the dark ink bleeding through the back of it. Snatching the paper from the windshield wiper, he surveils the parking lot. Two men stand near Fox Trot, smoking cigarettes and eyeing him. One of them waves with bright eyes, as if aware that it’s the governor, and he nods at them before climbing into his truck right away.
He sits behind the wheel for a second, the paper crumpled in his shaking hands as he watches the men finish off their cigarettes and head back inside. When they’re gone, he drops his head and finally finds the nerve to open the paper. His mouth goes bone dry when he reads: CHECK YOUR TRUNK, BAKER
“Shit.” He shudders a breath as he balls the paper up and places it in one of the cupholders. His eyes venture to the rearview mirror, as if someone will be waiting for him in the backseat, but there is nothing but leather seats and a slash of orangey-gold light from the streetlamp.
He steps back out of the car, taking cautious steps toward the trunk. When he pops it open, he’s aware of the gray gym bag and tall sack of golf clubs, but there is something back here that doesn’t belong. Something he’s never placed there or seen before.
A small black grocery bag is tied loosely by the handles. He picks his head up again, looking for the person who could’ve done this. How could they? His truck was locked.
Wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, he reaches forward and unties the bag. He spreads the bag open wider, the sound of swishing plastic colliding with his thudding heartbeat, and when he sees what’s inside it, he cups his mouth and stifles a shout.
Inside the bag is a dead, bloody crow. Its beady eye stares up at Dominic, allowing him to see his own blanched reflection. But it’s not the crow that makes him want to sink into the earth and never come up for air.
It’s the photo attached to it.
He lifts the bloody photo and it’s an image of Brynn at Galveston Lounge. And standing behind her, face clear as day, is himself. He’s looking off a bit in the photo, like he’s speaking to someone else, but it’s definitely him.
Hands shaking, he flips the photo over and written in black ink are the words: SIN AFTER SIN. LOOK HOW DEEP YOU’RE IN.
