“Oh.” He looks sheepish as he reaches the landing. “I put them in the trash.”
“What!”
“You don’t need them. We have clothes. More than you’ll ever need.”
“You want me to wear your dead wife’s clothes! Please tell me you’re kidding!”
“She barely wore half of them. And they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“Stop! Go get them.”
“From the trash?”
“We can wash them. No,youcan wash them.”
“Ah, well. There’s a problem with that.” He scratches his cheek sheepishly. “I had some old cans of oil. The painters usedthem to stain the house last year, and I wanted to get rid of them. I didn’t realize they were half full until I threw them in.”
“Bradley! You didn’t?”
“But it’s fine! You have all the clothes you’ll ever need. I can show you soon. I just need to call the police back. I couldn’t get through before.”
He goes back downstairs, and I turn back to the bedroom. I can’t exactly wear my pajamas until the fires are put out.
Still, as I open Grace’s wardrobe, the voice returns, louder than ever.
This is wrong.Over thirty dresses are hanging in a line, in various styles and colors. I run my hands across them and take out my favorite—the black dress with blue lines like pale veins. I check the tag and see that it’s Dior. Of course it is.
She wore this when we first met. And when she appeared in my cottage at night to scare me.
I expect it to be too small, but to my surprise, the dress fits. The plain diet and physical work of the last month must have taken off a few pounds.
I go to the mirror. In the dress, I no longer look like myself. But do I look like her? When we first met, I would have said definitely not, even though our hair color and build aren’t so different. But there was an attitude to her, a defiance, an unpredictability that made us seem like entirely different people.
“My name is Grace Frost,” I mutter. No—definitely not. Bradley’s throwing around promises for the future, but I’m an intellectual lightweight compared to Grace. I’mbasic. No one’s ever called me a genius or thought I was special, not even my own mother.
How long will it take before he gets bored with me? How long before he misses the friction and unpredictability of someone like Grace?
Next to the dresses inside the wardrobe, there’s a set of dark wooden drawers. On top of them is a jewelry box with three trays. I pull out the first and find four pairs of earrings. I pick out a pair with small diamonds and put them on. The next tray has various necklaces, all tasteful and expensive. The third is filled with miscellaneous objects—hair-ties, bracelets, and a small golden ring.
“Whoa.”
I jump at the voice and immediately feel myself blush. I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how tight the dress feels across my chest. “I’m not wearing this, just so you know. I just wanted to see how it fits.” I glance at myself in the mirror and cover my face with my hands. “Oh God, what am I doing? I’ve had too much to drink. What did the police say?”
“They said to go in and file a report when the roads are open. I think they’re stretched with the fires, and I didn’t make it sound too urgent.” I reach behind to unzip the dress, but he grabs my hand. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice low. “For a second, I thought you were her.”
“It’s a little snug.”
“In all the right places.” He turns me around so I’m facing the mirror once more and kisses me on the neck. “You are much more beautiful than her, you know.”
I’m ashamed at how much I want to hear this.
“It’s wrong,” I insist. “We can clean my old clothes.”
“That’s impossible. They’re ruined. Anyway, why are you so skittish? Grace tormented you. She was going to kill you. There’s no need to feel guilty. For once in your life, enjoy what you have.”
His hands wander from my waist to my breasts. I look at them, the same hands that killed Grace, and wait to feel the fear and disgust I felt yesterday. But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a strange and forbidden ripple of desire.
This is wrong, my inner voice screams—but there’s another voice. This voice has had three glasses of champagne in the last hour, and it’s ready to say,fuck it.
