Brazen Virtue

valium in the drawer of her bedside table. I found out and we fought, then when I couldn’t get through, I just left. It was easier.” She crushed out her cigarette with quick, violent taps, then immediately reached for another. “She was in trouble, she was hurting, and it was easier to walk away.”
    “Grace.” Ed moved over to take the cigarette from her. “It’s usually easier to blame yourself too.”
    She stared at him for a minute. Her hands went to her face as the dam burst. “Oh God, she must have been so scared. She was all alone, no one to help her. Ed, why? Dear God, why would anyone do this to her? I can’t fix it. I just can’t fix it.”
    He put his arms around her and held gently. Even when her fingers curled into his shirt and dug in, he held gently. Without speaking, he stroked her back.
    “I loved her. I really loved her. When I got here, I was so glad to see her, and for a little while it seemed we might get close. After all these years. Now she’s gone, like this, and I can’t change it. My mother. Oh God, Ed, my mother. I can’t bear it.”

    He did the only thing that seemed right. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the sofa to rock and soothe. He knew little about comforting women, about the right words to use or the right tone. He knew a lot about death and the shock and disbelief that followed it, but she wasn’t just another stranger to question or offer polite sympathy to. She was a woman who had called to him from an open window on a spring morning. He knew her scent and the sound of her voice and the way the slight movement of her lips brought out small dimples. Now she was weeping against his shoulder.
    “I don’t want her to be gone,” she managed to say. “I can’t stand thinking about what happened to her—about what’s happening now.”
    “Don’t. It doesn’t do any good.” He held her tighter, just a little tighter. “You shouldn’t stay here tonight. I can take you next door.”
    “No, if my parents call … I can’t.” She pressed her face hard against his shoulder. She couldn’t think. As long as the tears kept coming she couldn’t think. And there was so much to be done. But the shock was taking its toll in exhaustion and she couldn’t sort it out. “Could you stay? Please, I don’t want to be alone. Could you stay?”
    “Sure. Try to relax. I won’t go anywhere.”
    H E LAY IN BED with his heart hammering and screams still echoing in his head. The fleshy part of his arm was still throbbing where she’d torn at it. He’d wrapped it to keep blood off the sheets. His mother was fussy about her linens. But the steady ache was a reminder. A souvenir.
    My God, he’d never known it would be like that. His body, his mind, maybe even his soul if there was such a thing, had risen so high, stretched so tight. Every other device he’d used, the alcohol, the drugs, the fasting, none of them had even come close to that kind of rough-edged pleasure.
    He’d felt sick. He’d felt strong. He’d felt invincible.
    Was it the sex, or was it the killing?
    Laughing a little, he shifted on his sweat-damp sheet. How could he know, when it had been a first for both? Perhaps it had been that fascinating combination of the two. In any case, he’d have to find out.

    For one cold, brief moment, he considered going downstairs and murdering one of the servants in her sleep. When the idea didn’t stir his blood, he discounted it just as coldly, just as quietly. He needed to wait a few days, to think it through logically. In any case, it wouldn’t excite him to kill someone who meant as little to him as a servant.
    But Desiree.
    Turning again, he began to weep. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d wanted to love her, to show her how much he had to give. But she’d kept screaming, and her screams had driven him mad, driven him to a passion he’d been unaware existed. It had been beautiful. He wondered if she’d felt that wild, rising flood just before she’d died. He hoped so. He’d wanted to give her the best.
    Now she was gone. Though she’d died by his hands, and he’d unexpectedly derived pleasure from it, he could mourn for her. He’d no longer hear her voice, arousing, teasing, promising.
    He had to find another. Even the thought of it had his muscles trembling. Another voice that spoke only to him. Surely such glory wasn’t meant for only once in a lifetime. He would find Desiree again, no matter what she called herself.
    Rolling