Silent Slaughter by C. E. Lawrence Page A

and dear about her had vanished. His view of her was suddenly coldly objective. The person sitting across from him was small and dark, with a sallow complexion very different from his own. All that was foreign and exotic about her, all that had excited him, struck him now as odd and off-putting: the preternatural whiteness of her teeth, her dark eyes with their long black lashes.
    Even the wayward curl in the middle of her forehead failed to stir feelings of desire. Instead, he found himself wondering if she arranged it that way on purpose, knowing how fetching it was. The thought of something so charming being intentional crushed its allure for him. If the curl was planned, then it was no longer so enticing.
    He mentioned none of this. Instead, he said, “You want something to eat?”
    She lowered her head, the rogue curl flopping lower on her forehead. Was that on purpose? Did she know what he was thinking?
    “No, thanks,” she said, not looking at him.
    He took a swallow of Scotch and felt the welcome burn in the back of his throat. “I’m thinking of getting a cat.”
    She looked up. “What?”
    “My therapist thinks it will be good for me.”
    She frowned, deepening the dimple in her chin. “Men don’t have cats.”
    “Isn’t that a sexist attitude?”
    “Why not a dog?”
    “Too high-maintenance. A cat is easier.”
    She gave a little smile. “What will your therapist come up with next?”
    “She’s someone I can rely on.”
    “And I’m not—is that what you’re saying?”
    “I wasn’t trying to make a point. But it’s important to have someone you can trust.”
    “Look, I know I’m not really there for you right now, and I’m sorry about that.”
    “So,” he said, lurching into the conversation they had both been avoiding for weeks, “do you think you have a future with him?” He wasn’t going to say the name, though it was written in neon in his brain: Peter. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater . . .
    Her lips tightened, and she clasped her hands so tightly, the color left her fingers.
    “I don’t know .”
    “Is it something you want to explore?”
    She raised her gaze to meet his. He had never seen her face look so dark, so troubled.
    “I wish you wouldn’t be so goddamn agreeable about this. You should be angry at me.”
    “What makes you think I’m not?”
    “Then why are you behaving so damn decently ?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’re just making it more difficult.”
    He felt the anger bubbling up in his throat and fought it back down.
    “I’m sorry if I’m spoiling your getaway plan. We can just call it quits right now, if that’s what you want.”
    “I know I’ve been impossible lately. It’s just that I don’t know when . . .” She stared out the window at the moody gray waters of the Hudson. A hardy little band of mallards made their way upriver, paddling strenuously as they struggled against the current, the harbor lights glistening on their shiny green feathers.
    “You don’t know when I’m going to shake off my depression and anxiety and behave normally.”
    “I don’t blame you—”
    “But it’s hard to live with.”
    “And not being able to talk about certain things—”
    “Like my father.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Look, I’m glad your father is a swell guy you have a good relationship with. But it doesn’t work that way with everyone.”
    “I know that, Lee; it’s just—”
    He wrapped his fingers around the tumbler of Scotch and gazed into the tawny liquid. “ Do you know, really?”
    “I don’t want to lie to you and pretend everything is fine. . . .”
    “You know what?” he said. This conversation was exhausting, and he had had enough. “I think we both need some time off to think about this, and I’ve got other things going on.”
    She looked a little stunned by his tone of voice. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so angrily.
    “Okay.”
    “Fine,” he said, getting up to leave. He dropped two twenties onto the table. “I’ll