I notice Faye with Lucas. She’s stunning in a skintight silk dress in the most vibrant red I’ve ever seen. Lucas whispers something in her ear, and she smiles, then says something in return that makes him throw his head back in laughter.
She’s with him because you didn’t fight for him.
He doesn’t love me. Not really.
I’m in love with you.
Because you want the painting.
He—never—needed—you.
Because I was never that special.
Lucas dips me in the big-box store. We kiss like a couple newly in love. Giggle about him kidnapping me to Paris.
Our selfies. We were so happy together. He looks like he cares in those pictures.
If I had the powe
r to go back in time, I’d erase everything that happened since returning from the bed and breakfast. Then at least everything would be fine in my world, and I’d be happy.
Until it all crashes down on me, my house of cards, and I start to cry.
* * *
Lucas
Perhaps I should be grateful Ava’s apartment isn’t in a war zone, but that’s about the best I can say about her shitty neighborhood.
At least it’s low crime area—or so my PI Ken assured me—which I find hard to believe. More likely people assume it’s a low crime area, since there aren’t any security cameras and guards around to record unlawful actions for statistics.
I loiter outside her building until somebody goes inside. No one stops me, checks my ID, or looks at me suspiciously. I could be a gang-banger for all they know.
Definitely unsafe.
I go to Ava’s unit on the third floor. She and I were supposed to have a short meeting to go over our progress. However, Robbie said she was out sick, and I left the medical center immediately to rush to her side.
But now that I’m here at her door, I hesitate. What the hell am I doing here?
She and I have nothing to do with each other except for the fundraiser. Would I drive over to a coworker’s place just because he was sick? Of course not.
On the other hand, I know her work ethic. She never called in sick at work or missed a class when she was in college unless she was half-dead. She wouldn’t take a day off unless she was gravely ill.
She has no one in the city, except maybe Jon—my teeth grind involuntarily—and I made sure she wouldn’t have any free time to see him. Maybe she needs something to eat. I can just make sure she’s stocked up for the weekend and get out. This has nothing to do with my feel—my previous feelings for her. It’s what any decent human being would do.
I knock, then try the door. Good God. She didn’t even bother to lock it. Big cities like L.A. are teeming with serial rapists and killers. Just look at the news.
“Ava?” I call out softly, in case she’s asleep, then step inside, making sure to close and lock the door behind me.
The place is sparsely furnished with a couch, TV and small dining set big enough for two people. On it is an open laptop. A thin but serviceable beige carpet covers the floor. I look around. Ava hasn’t done much to decorate.
I start to walk toward the bedroom, that being the logical place to go if she wasn’t feeling well. Instead, I almost trip over her.
She’s sprawled on the living room floor. Her long platinum hair lies in tangles, and she’s in nothing but a long gray nightshirt with Bugs Bunny in the center holding a carrot.
Fear clutches my heart, coats my mouth with a sharp, unpleasant tang. Horrible possibilities flash through my mind. Seeing her like this sends me back to the winter I found Grandpa passed out on the floor of his rented Spanish cottage. He recovered all right, but half an hour longer and the story would’ve been very different.
Am I too late for Ava? How long has she been lying here?