Page 95 of Little Deaths
Greg shrugged in irritation and went to the other side of the bar, to clean glasses as he talked sports with the regulars. Donni, now dismissed, picked at her burger, taking a nibble of wilted lettuce before picking up her phone and sending Christophe another text.
I’m here. Where are you?
Once again, it went toread.
This time, she got a response.I’m outside.
Rafe responded almost immediately afterwards.
Stay away from Christophe. He’s been leaving you notes.
An uneasy feeling trickled down her spine like ice water. She looked at her wine, which under these lights looked a little like watered-down piss. She felt sick.
What kinds of notes?
The one on your car and your door were the ones he admitted to.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DIDandENJOY YOUR BLOOD MONEY, WHORE.Remembering his sleazy offer to help protect her, Donni felt a bolt of anger strike through the fear.
Outside the bar, you mean?She texted angrily.Are you coming in?
Coward.
I told him to stay way from you, Rafe was writing.He was trying to get you alone.
Her phone buzzed again.Meet me outside.
(Don’t bring Rafe)
I’m almost there, Rafe said.Stay right where you are. And if he comes near you, run.
Christophe couldn’t really be the killer, could he? Christophe, who clung to his mother’s apron strings and spent all his evenings getting drunk in the bars?
Meet me at the bar and tell me whatever you were going to tell me or I’m leaving, Donni wrote back at last, with trembling fingers.
It went toread.
Three dots appeared.
STUPID FUCKING WHORE.SOON YOU’LL BE DEAD, WHORE. DEAD WHORE. ONLY THE MAGGOTS WILL BE FUCKING YOU IN HELL, WHORE. FUCKINGMURDERER.
“Oh my God.” She choked on her own spit, the phone clattering to the counter.
The noise was loud enough that it carried over the television and a couple of the men looked her way in bemused irritation. “Is there a problem over there, Donni?” Greg asked.
“Uh—no.” She swallowed. Hard. “Is there someone who could walk me out to my car?”
Greg sighed audibly and gestured to Neil Olsson, Poppy’s husband. He was the foreman of the gravel quarry, a big ruddy man with skin that seemed permanently sunburned. More importantly, he was also 6’3” and had forearms the size of cooked hams.
“Come on then,” Neil said brusquely. “They’re about to start the third inning.”
“Thanks, Neil.”
He shrugged on his coat with a gruff noise of acknowledgement and the two of them walked out the saloon-style doors. It was getting darker now, the sky the color of old faded jeans. Silhouetted against that dusky shade, the trees looked black and menacing.
She was starting to feel a little silly for dragging Neil out with her. Rafe had scared her, that was all. The way he always did.Christophe wouldn’t really hurt me, she told herself, half-believing it. Not because he had any morals at all, but because he was just so goddamnweak.
They got to her car and she heard Neil exclaim in smoke-roughened surprise.