House of Blues

couldn't let go, all I
thought was that he was dying right then and I needed to help him
through. I mean, I didn't consciously think that, but when I look
back, I don't really remember being aware of anything except Arthur.
Then I heard Reed leave. I guess Evie must have backed out of the
dining room, then when she got to the front door, she turned around
and ran. And Reed followed, I guess. It was all sort of in my
peripheral vision. I didn't really know anything except what was
going on with Arthur; I just held onto him and said things like 'Take
it easy' until finally he closed his eyes and died. And even then I
sat there awhile.
    "By the time I realized I was alone, everybody
was gone. And so was our car—Reed's and mine. I guess Reed followed
her, but—" He stopped talking and took a puff of the
cigarette. He held it for a long time, staring at the wall, as if
trying to come to a conclusion.
    " But what?"
    "Well, she had her own car. If Reed followed
her, why didn't she just call the police when they got there? I
mean—where the hell is she now? This is what I can't get to the
bottom of."
    " Why did you leave the crime scene, Dennis?"
    " The crime scene? Oh. You mean Arthur. Well,
that's a real good question, officer. Why did I? Why did I do
anything I've done in the last few days? Because all those years of
being sober fell away, that's why. Because I couldn't think of
anything at all except getting fucked up." He stopped and
thought again. "No. No, I wouldn't put it that Way. I don't
remember thinking of a damn thing. It was like I was comatose. I just
walked till I got to a bar, where I got drunk enough to make it to
the next one. It was like wasting good booze on a dead person. But of
course that wasn't the half of it. What I really wanted was to chase
that ol' dragon."
    " Are you back on heroin?"
    " Yeah."
    "Where'd you get it?"
    He shrugged.
    "You got it from Turan, didn't you?"
    "Turan?" He looked so puzzled she thought
he probably was.
    "Turan."
    " Never heard of him."
    "Who then, Dennis—who'd you get it from?"
    "I can't talk about that."
    "You got it from Delavon."
    "I got it from who?
Are you speaking English, lady?"
    * * *
    Jesus shit, thought Evie, I haven't had a drink in
three days and I haven't halucinated or convulsed. Maybe things
aren't as out of hand as I thought. She realized, further, that
despite her desperate circumstances, she was possessed of a suddenly
optimistic spirit. The thought came to her that maybe there was a way
out. But looking down at her handcuffed wrist, that seemed
preposterous.
    Shit. How'd I get into this?
    Mo's face swam before her. The face of her lover.
    Its always a man, isn't it?
    That and alcohol.
    This time you really blew it, toots. This has got to
be your all-time dumbest. Shit! I swear to God if I do get out of
this I'll never touch another drop. Even though she was sure she
hadn't hallucinated, there were things about her current circumstance
that could hardly be explained any other way.
    The fact that her lover was holding her prisoner, for
instance. Because it was Mo's house that she was in. He was a lawyer
with a beautiful house; a perfect marriage candidate .... .
    Right.
    Well, hell, I lied to him, maybe he lied too.
    She had told him she was Yvette Johnson, a laborer's
daughter from Mississippi. It was a persona she'd had for a long
time; being Evie Hebert just hadn't worked out for her. She didn't
like a single damn member of her family and she didn't see why she
should use their name.
    She'd looked pretty damn good the day she met him,
wearing tight jeans and some sort of low-cut blouse, her hair in a
ponytail like a kid's. Because of her private-school accent, she'd
made her dad a carpenter this time—it was the kind of job that an
educated man might do—and she'd said her mother was a schoolteacher
and that she herself had gone a semester or two to Millsapps.
    She knew he was hooked the minute she walked in that
house. Before she left, he'd asked her to dinner, and before the
date, he sent her a dress and shoes to wear; he had a thing about
shoes. She didn't know if she should wear the outfit, thinking he
probably expected a quid pro quo, but then she figured, what the
hell, who cared what he expected, she could still say no if she
wanted.
    But he didn't even hit on her.
    It was a while before he brought her here, to the
mansion.
    He'd treated her like a princess.
    Of course, she did have to contend with Mrs.
Garibaldi, the terrifying