Page 100 of Devil

Particularly at the close of a relationship.

A gesture of good faith.

It’s literally dizzying. The workbench swims in front of my eyes, and I have the awful sensation of sinking and floating at the same time.

The nondisclosure agreements were already signed.

He’s already signed them.

Particularly at the close of a relationship.

I brace a second hand on the workbench, my knees barely holding me, and all I can think about is the sunflower field, about him standing against the bright flowers and bright sky with my palm against his pounding heart.It’s not going away. It’s not going to change.

And I believed him.

I could almost laugh if I didn’t feel so lightheaded.

God, why did you let me believe him?

I think I’m going to be sick. It’s so hard to think and I’m going to be sick and I knew, didn’t I? That this couldn’t last? That if he loved me like I loved him, we would have already changed the terms of the deal? He’d been so persuasive, though, and so direct, his obsession with me so tangible, something I could feel every time he woke me up already between my legs, every time he dragged me onto his lap with one hand already on his belt. When he brought me waffles doctored up with peanut butter and honey, when he watched me for hours and hours in the studio, when he lit up like a boy on Christmas whenever I shared the smallest thought or observation.

I’ve been just as naive as Busy and Kaitlyn think, mistaking possessiveness for promises, a fever for each other like it was a future. I’ve been a fool. I thought I was being so wary, so circumspect, but not even four months in, I’ve lost all reason, all perspective, all dignity.

I am…

Pathetic.

“Birdie.”

I jump, not having heard him come in through the door, and spin around.

Mindless panic clenches the base of my throat.

Bell is close, nearly close enough to touch me. There’s no way he hasn’t seen the open lockbox or the stack of papers on the workbench, but his eyes don’t move from mine. His hand is in his pocket like he’s just put his watch away, and his mouth is in an easy smile.

“Hi,” he says. So friendly, so warm.

I don’t know what to feel. Everything is wrong. I’ve been lied to; I’ve lied to myself. He’s forged my signature on a legal document, and he’s giving me an unholy sum of money, and he told me he loved me like he was being crucified with it, and he’s already signed a nondisclosure agreement for when he leaves me.

How did I get here? How did I let go of everything that’s kept me alive, kept me some semblance of safe? Where did that closed and wary woman go when I needed her the most?

“You’re home early.” That’s all I can manage right now. A banal observation that somehow makesmesound like the guilty party—a sibling caught stealing money, a spouse caught cheating, all because they didn’t account for the possibility of someone coming home before they were meant to.

He’s so relaxed. How is he so relaxed? His shoulders loose, one set back, his smile so steady. He looks more casual than I’ve ever felt in my life.

“You know, I thought I’d see if I could get away sooner than I’d planned,” he says. And then finally, with the horror of inevitability, his eyes drop to the workbench behind me. “Some leisure reading?”

I close my eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He’s come closer now. I feel the hair around my shoulders shift the smallest amount—he’s playing with a curl, I think. “You know how you have to tell me what you’re thinking. I’m no good at guessing it on my own.”

I don’t know if I’m scared or angry or hurt; I think I’m everything. I take a breath, my eyes still closed. “Don’t make me feel like I’ve done something wrong.”

“Oh, I would never do that,” he says. His voice is very close now. I open my eyes to find him close enough that a deep breath would press my chest to his. His hand is braced on the workbench behind me. “I’m very aware that I’m the villain here. But I always promised you as much, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t realize that extended to forgery,” I whisper. I’ve leaned back a little—the instinct of cornered prey—watching every flick and flicker of his eyes as if my life depends on it.

“You must remember me at Evelyn,” he murmurs, “the best in your class. I could draw anything, couldn’t I? As long as I had something to copy.”