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Red. Out of all the colors, I liked red the best.
It was Damon’s. The one he wore in high school, and the one he had in the fountain when we were kids. The other object was metal, with a sharp clasp and a design on it. A hair barrette. And then a memory flashed—I’d taken this out of my hair. Why did I give this to him? The rosary, the barrette, the fountain . . . I bit him.
“Your place is at my side,” I told her. “Say it.” She whispered, “My place is at your side.” “Louder.” I shook her gently, but my tone was firm. “My woman doesn’t ask permission. She’s a force. Say it louder.” Her chin started to tremble, but her voice burst out strong. “My place is at your side.”
“Rika . . .” I said in a low voice. “She’s yours.” “Oh, I wish,” he shot out, smiling to himself. “But no, Erika is a Fane.” What? Then I don’t . . . “A few years before her, though,” he told me, “Christiane had a son.” And then he looked at me, taking a drag of his cigar and thinning his eyes against the smoke. A son. I stopped breathing. They were my sisters, but Erika wasn’t my father’s. So that meant . . . I bared my teeth. “You’re lying.” He broke out into a smile, enjoying every second of this. It wasn’t true. “Natalya Delova was my mother,” I maintained. “I look just like her.”
“Who’s your employer?” I asked, suspicious. “Who’s paying you? Who’d pay the city off to look the other way about this?” He just stared at me, unblinking, and then answered, sounding almost serene. “Someone who wants you to have a chance, Mr. Torrance.” And I sat back in my chair, my eyes finally open and knowing the answer without Cason telling me. Christiane Fane.
“Wanted me to make a tree house and fountain for their property.” “And you said no?” “I don’t have time for that,” I shot back. “I need to get a job and figure out what we’re doing.” And then I paused, my back straightening and understanding dawning on me. “Ohhhhh.” “Yeah, dumbass!” she screeched. He was trying to hire me. To design and build.
It doesn’t hurt, though. Not at all. It actually feels kind of good, because the annoying sting of the cut is suddenly gone. Just gone. Like a kill switch. She stops biting, explaining it to me. “He told me if you’re hurt in more than one place, your brain only registers one pain at a time. Usually the stronger one. I had a hangnail one day, and it really hurt, so you know what he did? He bit my finger. It was so weird, but it worked. I didn’t feel the other pain anymore.” One pain at a time. So if something hurts, you can make it hurt less by adding more pain?
