“I’ll pick some up from the store,” he says. “Anything else you want?”
“Um . . .” I try to think of the house number, but I can’t picture it.Fuck, how do I tell him where I am?Damn it, I can’t even think of stir-fry ingredients to keep this bullshit conversation going.
“Mushrooms?” he asks.
“Yes! Mushrooms!” I press my index finger to my chin and curl it twice— “Red.” Then I lift my hands, press my fingertips together in the shape of a roofline, dragging them down and apart at an angle, then straight down. “House. Red house.”
There were a few red houses on this block; he won’t know which one. I try to remember anything unique about the exterior. I sign the letterB, then twist my wrist twice. “Blue.”
“I can do that. When do you think you’ll be home?” he asks.
I pinch my fingers together in front of my mouth. “Bird.”
“Maybe an hour,” I reply out loud.
Logan quickly signs back, “What is blue bird? Street?”
I shake my head in reply.
My thoughts are fuzzy, and I lean forward on the counter to keep from falling off my stool. Every blink becomes heavier.
How do I signdrugged?
I don’t remember, so instead I signpoison.
“I can pick you up so she doesn’t have to take you?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Ask Rosa for the address.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. I’ve never seen Logan scared until this moment. It’s strange seeing someone you’ve known for years exhibit a new expression. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him anxious. But fear . . . Fear is new.
“P-I-P-E?—”
I’m so focused on his face that I don’t realize she’s turned around. Rosa—Piper—whoever the fuck she is—sweeps her arm across the counter. My phone, the potted plant, and the glass of wine are flung off the tabletop and land with a huge crash on the floor. The screen on my phone goes black.
“You were signing my name!” she screams.
It’s pointless, but I deny it anyway. “What are you talking about?” My words are weak.
Her laugh is unnatural. “Did you think I wouldn’t fucking know sign language? He was my fiancé!”
Then she signs something to me; she’s faster than I am. I only pick up a couple words, but I think she’s signing, “You think you were the first woman he taught how to sign?”
What a cunt.
“What else did you tell him?” she screams.
“Nothing!” I shake my head. “Nothing!”
She shoves me and I lose balance, tumbling off the barstool. My hands shoot out to catch myself, and one lands on one of the broken pieces of the terra-cotta planter, slicing my palm and bleeding from the cut.That’s not good. It doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should. Whatever she drugged me with is dulling my senses.
“Wwhhat d-did you put in my wine?” Glancing over to the counter, I notice she hasn’t taken a sip from her glass.
It’s hard to know whether she actually poisoned me, but I’m not in pain, just sleepy. So I’m hoping it’s only a sedative. A really strong sedative.
She’s still screeching and yelling about something, something about telling him where we are and how stupid I am. If she’s this mad, I figure it’s a good sign. I did something she wasn’t planning. Part of me wants to stay calm, and the other part wonders if I focus on how fucking terrified I am, if the adrenaline will keep me conscious long enough for him to get here. Her voice goes between shrill and echoing like she’s far away.
I ignore whatever she’s yelling and try to focus on staying awake. Logan will come for me. I just need to stay awake until he arrives.
Blood leaks freely onto the floor, the edges of the puddle slowly growing wider; it’s the first time I’ve bled this much. Not a huge puddle, but last I checked, blood doesn’t pool when thingsare going well. I stare at the rich-red color, it’s the same color as the dress Logan bought me. The floor slowly tilts, but the puddle stays the same size and shape. It doesn’t drip even though the white tiles on the kitchen floor seem to be stretched at an angle.
