It is blood.
And it spells out a ragged, blurry word.
WHORE
15
Panic at the Disco
The cry I let out must sound quite pained because Henna grabs me, pulls me into a tight embrace. “Shh, shh, shh. We’ll figure something out. Perhaps we can sew the panels together—”
She’s smothering me, and I fight to get loose. She lets me go so suddenly I stumble into a small marble-topped table, causing all the incidental items to fall on the floor. The seamstress dives for them, clearly grateful for something to do.
When I right myself, I can barely look at my dress. “I can’t get married in a dress that has that nasty bloody word on it, Henna. No.”
“Then we’ll cut the damage free, create some sort of bustle. It will change the line of the dress, yes, but—”
“Stop. No. The dress is ruined. Throw it away.”
I want to ask her who had access to it, how she could let this happen, why why why why why, but I bite my tongue. As far as I know, the dress has been in three places until now—my house, the salon of the seamstress in Nashville, and here, but trust me, when I gave over the dress to Henna, it hadn’t been defiled. Henna had come to collect it in Nashville last week, and she’s been in charge of it since. But accusing her of letting this happen isn’t going to solve the problem.
You’re being awfully logical, Claire. It’s okay to have feelings about this.
I don’t particularly like having feelings. It’s not that I avoid them, it’s only that strong emotion makes me feel weak, and that kick-starts my panic.
Breathe, Claire.
I breathe.
Henna paces.
The seamstress, pale and shaking, having retrieved the table’s baubles from the floor, rebags the dress. She disappears into the hall with a whisper of fabric before she can be blamed for this fiasco.
When we are alone, Henna practically growls the words “Who would do such a thing?” Her voice is quaking with anger and that sets me off.
“Someone who clearly hates me. And it must be someone close. How else could they get to the dress?”
That’s it. The tears pour down my face unchecked. The shock has passed, and reality is setting in, and I can’t dance away from it any longer.
Someone broke into my house, and died there. My wedding dress is ruined. A storm is bearing down on the island, Jack’s grandfather is addled, there’s a dead body down by the pier, and I don’t even want to think about what else might go wrong.
I don’t have panic attacks anymore. It’s something I left behind when I met Jack. He makes me feel so protected, so safe, that my lifelong anxiety has faded away. With Jack by my side, I feel in control again, strong, capable. I’m not that destabilized little girl who blamed herself for everyone’s bad moods and sharp words. I felt no need to pop pills or smoke joints to help me retreat from the world into a tiny cocoon of safety and warmth. His loved healed me, smoothed all my broken edges.
So I thought.
All of that progress, gone in a moment.
* * *
When I come back to myself, legs drawn into my chest, the slate floor hard beneath me, I realize Henna has put some sort of cold cloth on my neck and is stroking my back.
“Oh, Claire. Poor girl. I’m sorry. We’ll figure something out. It’s just a dress. It’s the vows that really matter.”
Just a dress. This from the woman who insisted on Louboutin bags for our hostess gifts. I am filled with a sudden desire to slap her hand away. Another vestige from my past, my anger, my impulse to lash out, to hurt, rearing its ugly head.
I struggle to my feet, pushing away her proffered hand, dragging in deep breaths.
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I am. It was a shock. I’m fine now. I’d like to be alone. Please.”
Henna frowns but takes the hint. “I’ll see what can be done for your dress. I still think it can be saved. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Claire. We’ll find out who did it. It’s a terrible, nasty prank, and we’ll find the culprit, I promise you.”
It is a good speech. I almost believe her.
With one last appraising glance, Henna strides out, heels clicking on the slate. I lock the door and make myself a cup of tea, go back to the bedroom, sink onto the heavenly soft bed, losing myself in the fluffy cream duvet. The scent of overripe lemons and dank vegetation and wet concrete drift through the room. I need to talk to Jack. There is no longer any doubt—we are under attack. The question is, from whom? And even more importantly, why?
I pull my phone from my pocket and send him a text—I need you.
I get nothing in reply. My phone has only one bar inside the room. I drag myself from the bed. I feel achy and sore, like I’m coming down with the flu. My throat is scratchy, my eyes burn.
I go out onto the terrace, into the salty, ozone-laden air.
The text still doesn’t go through.
I should go find him. But I don’t know where he is.
I feel another keening building inside, a desperate fear that something has happened to him, that I’ll never see him again. What would my life look like without Jack? Empty. Desolate. Over.
Grow up. Stop being such a spastic little girl. Why do you always act like such a child?
I leave the doors ajar so the air circulates and lie back down on the bed.
I haven’t felt this helpless and alone since my dad died.
And I can’t go there now, or I will fall apart completely.
I hear a scraping noise and let out a startled cry when the calico I was petting outside earlier leaps onto the foot of the bed. “My mother’s cats,” Jack had said, and it makes sense that the cat had sought out her spot, considering this room had long been Brice and Ana’s space, was just given over to us as the newest Compton bride and groom.
But the door is locked. I locked it myself when Henna left. How did the cat get in?
Off the terrace, perhaps. Or she could have been hiding under the bed. Stop being so spooky, Claire.
I reach down and stroke a finger lightly between the cat’s ears. “Hello, Rosa. Is this your normal home? I’m sorry I locked you inside.” The cat purrs in answer and snuggles into my hand. She doesn’t seem upset at all to be stuck with me instead of Ana.
I hear a keening wail, high-pitched and eerie. Like a woman crying, but it’s just the wind, gusting, rushing along the cliffside. The terrace doors blow open, the curtains flapping into the room, flinging splashes of water onto the Aubusson carpets. I hurry to the doors, slamming them shut before the rain ruins the drapery and rugs. A massive flash of lightning breaks the darkened sky, disappearing behind the edge of the cliff. Thunder rumbles on the strike’s heels, so close I can feel it in my bones. I don’t even have time to count it off. The cat, tail fluffed, dives under the bed with a sharp chirp.