“I want you to trust me.”
“Trust you?” I repeat harshly.
“Trust me to take care of this. To keep you clear of it. To protect you.”
“Sure, okay,” I agree sarcastically. “Tell me what that looks like.”
“That looks like speaking to Emma tomorrow, then hunkering down here for another day or two while I take care of a few more things.”
I look at Henry like he has sprouted an additional head. “Whatthings?”
“You need to trust me.”
“I don’t!” I shout this, and Henry presses his lips together stubbornly.
“The other night,” he says after a moment, “when we slept next to each other. And I said I could not feel what we once had? That was a lie.”
“Don’t,” I say, twisting my wrists raw in my restraints. “Don’t do that.”
Henry ignores me. “Ididfeel something different. Something that made me crazy.”
“Stop,” I say, but my voice sounds weak and ineffective.
He does not stop. His face is pleading and guileless. “I was bursting out of my skin trying not to touch you.”
I close my eyes in one final act of self-preservation. I feel like one of those street cobras, dumped onto the hot pavement, too sluggish and malnourished to attack my charmer, easily tamed, soothed, tricked. “You will say anything at this point,” I insist, mostly for myself.
“I could say that if you decide not to trust me, if you decide not to let me take care of this my way, I will go ahead and I will ruin everything you have worked so hard to accomplish.”
I open my eyes to find Henry looking at me with what I can only describe as anticipatory regret.Do not make me do this to youis what his face is saying. I curl my hands into fists, furious. “Then do it. I know you want to. Or is that the grand fucking finale to this elaborate revenge plot?”
Henry leans forward to stress what he is about to say. “I promise you, there is a way out of this, for both of us, unscathed, if you just trust me. And if it all goes to shit, I will say you were coerced into doing this, and you will have your episode to prove I was always a controlling piece of shit.”
“You would never.”
“I would. A thousand times over I would. Because I still love you.”
I turn my head like he has slapped me. The windows show a black as solid as a brick wall, hiding the surface of the lake, though I imagine its frightened, gooseflesh appearance in the rain. I can only see myself in the window’s reflection, the struggle on my face to hide my same sobby feelings. Yes, I went to PT’s funeral because I wanted to pay myrespects to the man who helped me get my start, who waskindto me on top of it, but also because when Campbell told me Henry would be there, my body lurched like a creature brought back to life to destroy the person who created it.
I face Henry. Find his eyes like one of those old carousel projectors, blinking fuzzy, precious memories. Before the word is even out of my mouth, I regret it.
“Beg,” I say to him.
Surprise softens Henry’s features. Then, I watch as understanding sets in, rearranges him molecule by molecule. He leans forward, stares at me with his hands bracing his upper body on his knees, long enough for me to take back what I said. He is giving that to me, I realize. A chance to change my mind. Even if I wanted to, my mouth is sandpaper. Now it is too late; he is rising from the couch. There is an unreal quality to the room, its golden romantic cast, its cold drumbeat of rain, as he steps around the coffee table and comes to loom over me in a way that reminds me I am tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere with a murderer who has already gotten away with it once.
“You asked for this,” Henry reminds me. He drops down to his knees, putting us at eye level. He is so much more daunting at eye level than he is standing. I can see myself reflected in his exploding pupils, seamed blue and then black again, a miniature, petrified version of myself. “I am begging you, Faye,” he says. “Please. Trust me.”
I stare at him, unyielding.
“Faye.” Something splinters in Henry’s smooth voice. “If we go through all this, and I don’t ever get to touch you again—” He breaks off and stares at my lap, where under the blanket I am not wearing underwear. His cheeks are flushed. His mouth is pink, hiseyes are soft and downturned and a wretched blue. “I will never forgive myself.” Beneath the blanket I am beating a loud and lonely percussion for him. He hears it, he must.
“Please,” Henry says. Hebegs. “Faye. Please.”
I make myself count to three before I ruin my life, to be sure this is really what I want. Yes. With Henry, the answer is always yes. “You never bothered to ask before.”
Henry’s absurdly full lips part in disbelief. “Because that’s not what you like.”
I am shackled like a prisoner and dizzy with freedom as I say, “Then do what I like.”