Cavin is enjoying the shipboard casino. I guess he’s enjoying it, considering he’s down over two grand. He says not to worry, he’ll earn it back. And you know, maybe he will. I am starting to think, however, that he might have a tiny—or larger—gambling problem. It has even occurred to me that Eli’s college fund might have gone to pay more than the IRS. And then there’s that second mortgage on the Carmel house. Not to mention late arrivals back to the room, no real explanation. Paranoia is a bitch. However, intuition is a good friend.
Cavin promised Eli he was getting help. Is he really? If so, it’s not working. This is not something you should keep from your spouse. You can’t disguise an addiction forever. And the deceit involved with the attempt will continue to crack the foundation of your relationship. Love is not a strong enough mortar.
I keep returning to Eli warning me that words are cheap.
Eli pointing out the date of Caldwell’s report.
Eli saying he doesn’t want me to get hurt.
Eli asking for my love.
Eli. Eli. Eli.
It was you who hacked your way into my house. Taylor came clean and admitted the two of you did it together for kicks, and the chance to sample my cellar. But other than that and helping yourself to my larder, you never really disturbed anything there, and that was before we had the chance to connect in a more personal way.
Was I wrong to have doubted you?
Was I wrong to place my absolute trust in your father?
Because here’s the thing. If I discover that I was no more than a means to an end, I will liberate the part of me I work very hard to keep detained. My knee will have healed by next ski season and there are a lot of trees at Heavenly. Cavin is probably a better skier than Raul, but I’ve secured a stash of opioid painkillers. Two or three in a cup of prerun cocoa could deteriorate one’s skill. It only took one for Raul.
If “regret” was in my vocabulary, I might feel guilty about what happened. I didn’t mean to kill Raul, only to cause a small accident, something to keep him off the mountain. His ski instructor that trip was an attractive girl, a bit younger than I was, and his flirting, innocent or not, became way too obvious. He took lessons in the morning and after lunch we skied together. As always, stepping off the cornice brought a sharp rush of pleasure, but when Raul hit that tree, what I experienced was very close to orgasmic.
His death was unintentional, but its immediate benefits—an immense trust fund, coupled with the freedom to be and do anything I wished at age twenty-three—were immediate, and that it was so easy intrigued me. I might have succumbed to the temptation to extract similar revenge on Jordan and Finn, whose infidelities were much more concrete. But Raul’s demise was, in fact, an accident. Law enforcement conducted only a cursory investigation. Had the next two husbands died, however, it might have raised a little suspicion. Tapping into their power meant more than taking a chance on death row. I didn’t love them. Better to toss them aside, make them pay with what they valued most.
I almost regretted that decision when the private investigator finally discovered it was Jordan behind the text and e-mail threats after all. But he was already serving his sentence, and the plea bargain eliminated the need for continued harassment. I’m not sure what he thought he could blackmail me with, other than my mental health issues, which he only got glimpses of. I may have inherited brain abnormalities from my mother, but unlike her, I mostly maintain self-control.
I could lose it completely if I discover Cavin has done nothing but play me. But until such deception is a proven fact, I’ll continue to love him with everything I’m capable of. If he gets back to our cabin early enough, I’ve got lingerie he still hasn’t seen, and I think my knee can accommodate doggie style tonight.
I pick up the book Eli loaned me as the waiter delivers my sidecar. He looks at the cover. “Confessions of a Sociopath? Doing some research?”
I smile at the echo. “Self-help, maybe.”
The honeymoon, I’m afraid, is over.
Lull
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go . . .
—Robert Frost
A shrug of dawn
slips beneath the window blind, shimmies
impatiently through cracks
between eyelashes, tugs you
toward another morning.
You resist,
reluctant to leave the deep, pacific
woodland, haven
from the burgeoning storm—
the year’s darkest day.
You want to stay
and watch the forest fill with dreams’
gentle snowfall, listen to wind
and downy flake
sweep against your pillow.
So you pull your blanket
over your face, tuck it under your skull,
weight it with a stir of unease, questions
prowling your brain,
sneak thieves.
Can that watery light
mean daybreak? What promises
are left to keep? How many miles
must you go before retreating
again to the woods of sleep?
Acknowledgments
A huge shout-out to my publishing family at Simon & Schuster, especially my Atria clan, who never lost faith in me. Here’s to new journeys, in whatever formats. Also, a giant thank-you to my immediate family, which has grown, bringing challenges, successes, disappointments, and obstacles overcome, not to mention more love than most will ever experience.
DISCOVER MORE FROM ELLEN HOPKINS
Collateral
Collateral
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Triangles
Triangles
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ELLEN HOPKINS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eleven young adult novels, as well as the adult novels Triangles and Collateral. She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra, a nonprofit youth housing and resource initiative. Visit her at EllenHopkins.com and on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter @EllenHopkinsLit. For more information on Ventana Sierra, go to VentanaSierra.org.
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Also by Ellen Hopkins
Collateral
Triangles
Young Adult
Crank
Burned
Impulse
Glass
Identical
Tricks
Fallout
Perfect
Tilt
Smoke
Rumble
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Ellen Hopkins
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Jacket design by Rachel Adam
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Author photograph © Sonya Sones
ISBN 978-1-4767-4365-3
ISBN 978-1-4767-4367-7 (ebook)
Ellen Hopkins, Love Lies Beneath
(Series: # )
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