Page 2 of Dark Wishes
This white one,like the two-level house isn't worth millions of dollars. To be fair, that's not strange for houses in Los Angeles. But to call this mini-mansionThe White Oneis plain insulting.
Stone walls flank the closed gate, the dual pillars framing the large ivory door at the end of the winding driveway. The house isn't out of place, the whole neighborhood is expensive home next to expensive home.
The more I look, the more I notice other signs of opulence; fancy cars, perfectly trimmed trees, every gate locked shut to keep solicitors out.
“Huh,” I mumble.
“Why do I get the impression you're confused?”
“I didn’t think you’d live in such a... suburban area.”
“Pictured me in more of a dark dungeon situation?” he asks.
I shrug lightly. “Kind of. Rory’s apartment was more what I expected.”
Jamison turns away, fingers slipping under the lip of the sun visor over his head. He presses something there and the gate blocking the driveway parts open for us. “If you prefer Rory’s style, you ‘ll be satisfied. I keep the curtains shut.”
“Of course you do,” I whisper.
He guides his car along the length of the drive, parking it in the attached garage. An actualgarage.I’ve been forced to street park since I moved out here. Having a private, secure place to leave your car is a luxury, but this is more than that—the space could fit a second vehicle. The beige walls are broken up with peg boards holding tools, a few shelves are stacked with black totes. I can’t tell what’s inside those.
I hop out of the car with the bags of food in one hand, my backpack in the other. The scent of pine and sawdust makes my nose tickle. “You do a lot of woodworking in here?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” he says, following me out of the car.
“I guess.”
He pauses with his hand on the oiled, bronze knob of the door at the top of two short steps. “This is bothering you.”
My mouth opens, then shuts, before I shrug in defeat. “Cute house with a manicured lawn, nice neighbors who probably have Solar Panel stock investments? Tools for your lazy weekend hobby of making—I don’t know, flutes?”
“Flutes?” he laughs.
“Whatever people with too much free time do,” I mumble. “It’s surreal. I’m having a hard time reconciling the you I know with... this.” I gesture broadly.
“I expected you to find this comforting. Other people do.”
“What other people?” I pop back thoughtlessly. And maybe my face is too scrunched up, or my frown too obvious, but the edge of his left eye twitches. “Ah, shit, that came out wrong.”
“No, you said it clearly. Why would a man like me have friends?”
He’s clocked it; that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. “It’s just, after you said Rory wasn’t your friend...”And I learned you slaughtered your sister along with a room full of people...No, I don’t add the last bit. I really want to. I also seriously don’t. The comment fills my mouth, as chalky as the sawdust I smell all around me. “I figured you’re a loner.”
“You’ve missed the point of the nice house, the quaint neighborhood. Theflutesor whatever the fuck you think I’m whittling. People are stacked edge to edge in this city, Selena. I encounter them whether I want to or not. Loners are seen as suspicious.” Jamison twists the door open, like he’s imagining the knob is my throat.
I cringe automatically at the visceral image and put my hand to my neck. He doesn’t linger to hear my response—I don’t have one—he charges through to the other side.
Way to go, Selena,I scold myself,you sounded like a bitch, AND like an idiot. Of course he hides in plain sight. Jamison, the quiet neighbor with a quirky hobby.I know who he really is because I had it shoved in my face. If I’d passed him on the street, would I have guessed he was a skilled killer?
I shuffle after him reluctantly into a short hallway, closing the garage door as I go. The floor is varnished; smooth as the wood in every wax-polish commercial. He wasn’t kidding about the curtains. The large bay window in the next room is draped by thick, navy-blue cloth. Thank god he believes in recessed lighting, or this building would be pitch black.
Across from the window is a staircase with a vague twist, like the designer decided at the last minute to give it some flair. I haven’t been inside a proper house in ages. Out here, in LA, my experience has been dubious apartment rentals or staring at celebrity mansions from afar.
“You can put the food in here,” he calls out around the corner. I follow his voice, my eyes wandering across the egg-shell walls to note the number of framed photos. If you don’t inspect close, you’ll think they’re mementos. But every picture is something generic, like an ocean cliff, or a bridge, or a chunk of flowers in a field.
Nothing personal. Just enough to avoid bare walls.Now that I’m looking for it, I see the house for the illusion it is. Jamison grips the back of a chair that matches the deep mahogany of the table. There are six empty seats—has he ever filled them all? Thrown a dinner party? Had people laughing at his jokes?
“What do you want to drink?” he asks.
