Page 69 of Melancholia

“Probably,” he agrees. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to ask me? Or may I get back to more important matters?” His hand goes back to my waist where he pushes my shirt up again, his eyes dark and promising under his lashes.

“Oh fuck,” I sigh as he cups his hand against me between my thighs. “Fuck, Amir, I’m so tired and sore and—” But I whimper when he gently slides a finger into me. Then another.

“I know,” he purrs. “I know, but you’ll be so good for me, won’t you?” He rocks them into me, his thumb brushing my clit. “You’ll come for me one more time, then let me clean you up? You’ll be my perfect little doll, and I won’t have to find more creative ways to get you to stay still next time when I want to play.”

The promise—or the threat, I suppose would be the correct way to hear that—makes me shiver in anticipation. And it isn’t long before my hips are rocking against him, my small cries disappearing into his mouth when he kisses me again.

When I come on his fingers, it’s with his name on my lips, and his wolfish grin is enough to tell me that’s exactly what he wants to hear. So I give it to him. Again and again.

And again, even when I think I can’t take any more.

25

“You’re…still here.”

I blink up from where I’m slowly spinning in the chair, seeing Cecil standing in my slightly wavering vision from so much slow spinning. “Yup, I am still here.” I give him an apologetic smile and sit back, feeling like a child caught drawing on the wall.

Cecil glances down at his old-fashioned, inherited watch, then back up at my face. His brows knit in concerned confusion, and he looks at the door as if maybe it’s disappeared. “I told you that you could go home, remember?” he asks. “About an hour ago, if I recall.”

How do I tell him I don’t want to go home right now?

More than anything, I’d like to tell Amir. But that’s not the kind of relationship this is, and the moment I start thinking of it like one, I know I’ll be in a lot of trouble.

“Sorry, Cecil.” I give him a tentative, stiff smile. “I just started thinking and got lost in it.” It’s not a lie, exactly. After all, my thoughts keep pulling me back to the dreams I’ve been having more and more lately.

The ones where I watch my mother die over and over. But what makes it worse, I have to hear her last words to me every time as well. Like I haven’t thought about them enough in my life.

“I wish it was you instead of her.”

The words twist in my brain like knives, and I’d do anything to never hear them again—spoken or not—including give up my ability to hear forever.

Cecil frowns at me and runs a hand through his greying hair. “I get it. I know things have been a bit strange around here since Andrew’s death.” That’s not exactly the reason, but I’m not about to correct him. It’s close enough, and technically, that is what started all of this.

“I’m sorry you had to go to the station and be interviewed. Adele told me you seemed nervous. She felt bad, I think.” He chuckles in that fatherly way that made me warm up to his dad jokes on the very first day I got to Still Pines.

Even without knowing the first thing about me, he made me feel at ease. Made it seem like I would be welcome here, without ever prying into my past.

I feel a little shard of guilt stab into my chest when I know who killed Andrew. If Cecil knew, surely he’d tell Adele.

Even if what Amir did wasn’t that bad, considering what Andrew was. But still the guilt stays, and I push to my feet, ideas of trying to convince Cecil to let me stay suddenly drying up in my chest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask, and he brightens a little, his smile warm at my change in tone.

“Absolutely. I’ll be here early. It’s Mrs. Elliot’s day to finalize preparations for the funeral.”

Maybe I’ll call in sick. The shard slides deeper into my heart, and I only give him a nod and a sympathetic smile. Or at least my best attempt at it. “Let me know if you need me to come in early.” God, I hope he doesn’t. I can’t be here while Andrew’s mother cries and talks about all the great things her son did.

But Cecil assures me he won’t, which gives me the push I need to make my escape into the cloudy afternoon instead of staring at him with what I’m sure is a confusingly guilty expression on my face.

The drive back is uneventful, though I sit in my car in the back parking lot of Coffee Crest just to stare at my phone. What if I told him? Would he care? He says he loves the ways I’m broken, but calling him now—a few days after having easily the best, most intense sex of my life—would be…

Well, I’m not sure what it would be. Needy? Dramatic?

Too much?

Something twists in my gut at the thought of being too much. Even here and now, I can’t stomach it. Even with a murderer who told me he has in fact killed before.

“Fuck it,” I sigh, shoving my phone back into the pocket of my leggings. I’ve dealt with my problems for twenty-four years, almost on the dot. I can do it again.