Devil You Know

REPETITION

Jane

THE DAYS fall by, the weeks pass, and before I know it I've become Dylan's wife again. The role fits me like a favorite pair of jeans—comfortable, and reliable.

I left my job.

Dylan felt it gave me too much of an attitude, socializing with other adults he doesn't know. My recreation time from this hellish prison has been revoked.

I roll with the punches . . . literally. His violence is at an all-time low, or is that a high? Some days I wonder if he knows—if he suspects anything. Some days I'm certain he's seen me, heard me, but then others he ignores me, as if I'm no more than a ghost in my own home, and I feel that double-edged peace that come with invisibility.

The most magical thing happens one morning. We talk—my neighbor and I.

The first time I hear him call my name I'm positive I've truly lost my mind. Dylan is getting ready for work, and I'm dutifully hanging out my second load of washing for the day. Yeah, I do a lot of washing. I wash the sheets every day—it's easier than going to bed and smelling the stale, sweaty scent of my fear, or Deandra's perfume all over again.

My hand is raised mid-strike with a peg, when my neighbor calls my name again.

"Jane."

I look back over my shoulder, shake my head and continue—positive I finally have voices in my head to keep me company.

"Jane."

It comes through as more of a pronounced "Jenn," when he hisses it through a knot in the fence paling.

I look at the wood, hopeful it might decide to spell out an answer in the color of its grain as to whether I should reply. Predictably enough, it does nothing to help.

"What?" I whisper back, sure I'm talking to a figment of my imagination.

"Are you hurt?"

Now, normally a person starting a conversation with that wee stunner would warrant me raising an eyebrow, and wondering about their state of mind. But given he lives next door, and he no doubt hears our close-to-nightly sparring matches, I could forgive him.

"No. Why?"

Nothing. I peg another sheet, stealing glances at the fence every so often.

"I hadn't seen you in a few days, and it's been weeks since I took Rocco."

And? Does he expect me to pop over with scones each Friday?

"What did you expect? I can't be seen over there."

"I know." A long sigh. "I wanted to check on you. I was worried about you."

"I'm okay. Thanks for your concern, though."

Pegs in my right hand, and a pillow-case in my left, I watch that fence for a solid five minutes before I feel sure enough he's left. I hang out the rest of the load, running our brief interaction over and over in my head until the words take on a meaning not found in the Oxford Dictionary.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" becomes "Will you survive?"

"I hadn't seen you," becomes "I've watched for you."

And "I wanted to check on you," is the worst of all. My overactive imagination changes that beauty to "One day I'll take you away from this."

I vow as I walk inside with the empty laundry basket that I'll never read a romance novel again.

They're seriously fucking with my expectations of the world.

• • • • •

FOUR DAYS later, he speaks to me again.

"Jane."

I juggle the handful of tomatoes I've picked from the plants that cling to the side of our garden shed.

"Jesus. Stop sneaking up on me."

"Would you rather I came to the front door?" the fence replies.

He has a point. "I'm fine, thank you."

"That's not what I was going to ask."

It wasn't? "I'm listening."

"Can you get away from the house at all? On your own? I need to see you."

Snuffles sound near my feet, and I can imagine how Rocco will be doing his utmost to jam his nose through the tiny gap under the palings. "Does groceries on a Thursday count?"

Midnight Savior chuckles on the other side of the fence. I swear there's a part of me in a puddle at my feet. "If it means I'm close enough that I could touch you without a damn fence in the way, then of course. Where do you shop?"

"The farmer's market near Benbrook." He wants to touch me? Why is my heart racing? I look at my hands, the pink flush on the edge of my palms indicating I'm not imagining the clamminess.

"I'll see you there. What time?"

"Nine-ish?"

The swish of grass under his feet, and the light rattle of the catch on Rocco's collar tell me which way they've gone. I stand there, shamelessly looking at that fence as I imagine him and Rocco on the other side, walking away from me. Every step he takes deflates the little swell of happiness I clutched onto whilst talking to him. Every step he takes brings me back to the world about me: my house, my yard, my husband. The awareness raises my nerves, somewhat.

What does he want to see me for? What is it that can't be said through the fence? God, he probably wants to ask me to take Rocco back. How long did I expect him to keep him for? What kind of idiot am I, abusing another's goodwill like that?

"Jane! What are you doing?"

Chills prickle over my flesh. "Coming, honey."

Dylan stands, hands on hips, and positively glowers at me. Did he see me talking? Does he know? "My lunch won't make itself," he barks.

No—it won't.

Pity.