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This question sounds like a request for an oath.
“Agnes,” I say.
“Yes,” Tucker says solemnly.
I turn to him, my eyebrows furrowed, as my little sister goes into the bathroom. We stare at each other for a minute, in silence. Neither he nor I speak. I still feel the violence of his kiss, the wild contact of his lips on mine.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I sigh as I walk to the kitchen. I rub my eyelids hard against my palms, suddenly exhausted. I hear the sound of his footsteps at my back.
“You were screaming on the phone in a panicked voice. What should I have done? Ignore that you might have been in danger and go on with my life?!”
I turn toward him and then back away a little as I notice the proximity of our two bodies. I lean against the kitchen bar and cross my arms over my chest. Worry doesn’t leave his features, nor does anger. He’s seen things he shouldn’t have, and I know it’s too late to back out now.
“I’m sorry,” I simply answer, not knowing what to say.
He takes another step towards me but holds back. He opens his mouth several times and then closes it again without saying anything. I should tell him to go away, but I can’t. Because his presence helps me to feel better. Because his presence helps me to relax, reassures me, gives me the stupid impression that nothing can happen to me.
“What happened?” he finally asks.
“Someone broke into my place,” I confess. “The door wasn’t forced open, so the cops think someone picked my lock.”
“Did the son of a bitch steal things? Break stuff?”
“No, just a vase.”
His breathing quickens, and I can see he’s losing his patience. He points to the wall with his index finger and asks me, “What the hell is this?”
I swallow my saliva. He asks me the, question but I know perfectly well that he has understood. Tucker is far from being stupid, I’m sure he made the connection between my confession of the other day and what happened tonight. The other night, in his car, I confessed to him that I was a monster. Tonight, he sees the word “killer” painted on my wall. It doesn’t take a PhD to understand.
“It’s just a word,” I try piteously.
He squints his eyes a little more.
“Just a word? They wrote ‘killer’ on your wall, Iris.”
“I know!” I exclaim in turn. “Look, I…I need to think. I need you to leave.”
He lets out a joyless laugh. I’m well aware that I’m acting stupidly. He’s worried, jumped in his car to come here, and rather than explain to him what he already half understands, I dismiss it. But I can’t speak, the words get stuck in my throat. My instinct is to confide in him, while a part of me urges me to say nothing. So I choose the right option. The less he knows, the less power he has to destroy me, right?
“No,” Tucker retorts, standing his ground. “No way.”
I frown.
“What do you mean ‘no?’ You’re in my house, and I order you out of MY apartment!”
“So what, we’re going to pretend this never happened? Like I didn’t see that word sprayed on your wall? I shouldn’t draw any conclusions?”
“Draw whatever conclusions you want, Tucker. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk right now.”
The truth is, I’m a coward, I can’t do it. So I reject him in the hope of postponing the moment. Because I know for sure that my confession will come sooner or later.
“Later,” I almost beg him.
He analyzes me during long seconds. His look doesn’t tell me anything good. All of a sudden, he turns around and heads to the door furiously. It slams behind his back as he disappears from my sight. A feeling of loss comes over me. The feeling I had of being protected has evaporated.
What the hell did you do, you idiot?
Thirty minutes later, I look at Agnes, deeply asleep under the sheets. I don’t know if she really realized all that happened. I don’t think she has made the connection between what happened tonight and what happened years ago. And that’s good, otherwise she would be even more worried. Sitting next to her, I run the tip of my index finger over the bridge of her freckled nose. She’s made me promise three times to keep her this week and not bring her back now, but I still don’t know what to do.
