Paul took her inside, a total gentleman as he guided her down Dottie's dark hall and into a room at the back of the house, where enough moonlight shone in to cast them in a sort of powdery pale blue light. He gestured to an old floral-patterned sofa, and Maeve, hardly able to stand, felt some guilty relief to be able to sit, to know that it'd all happened, finally, and whatever came of it all, the hiding was over.
He stood at the entrance to the room, back against the wall, and Maeve saw her gun in his hand and hardly understood how he'd come to have it. They stayed like that for some moments, contemplating one another, the things that stood between them thick and invisible. Maeve tried to turn her thoughts away from all of the memories, the many things she'd twisted and screwed into the shadowy places of her skull, hoping to never address them again. She looked at the ugly things in the room, the stacks of papers and magazines and books, the dead plants, the plates and mugs and innumerable knick knacks that most old people seemed to own. The house was permeated with the stench of cats--cat food, cat litter, cat feces, cat hair--though Maeve saw no cats, heard no cats, and a sudden sick knot formed in her gut.
At last he spoke, and when he did, Maeve was sad at the ease with which his words touched her ears. Whatever she'd tried to tell herself about him, about her feelings toward him, the reality was that she'd always fall back into him. There was something wrong inside of her; she knew it, and she despised herself for it.
"You've been avoiding me."
The mellow smoothness of his tone, his subtle sarcasm--she had to remind herself of her daughter and decided she wasn't ready to speak to him.
Paul watched her, narrowed his piercing eyes (so like his daughter's). For a middle-aged man, he seemed perpetually youthful, partially for his clean-shaven face and longish black hair but also because, in spite of his strength and stature, he retained a sort of playfulness. Maeve had been attracted to that, long ago, until she'd understood that Paul's jests, his mirth were often prelude to his anger.
Had she been looking at him (but she couldn't bring herself to) she would have noticed his nostrils flare as he attempted to quell his irritation. The man wouldn't move his eyes off of Maeve; why wouldn't he stop staring at her? She felt his gaze even without seeing it. "What do you want?" she asked stupidly, pretty sure she knew what he wanted, knew it wasn't anything good, hoped only--impossibly--that somehow he didn't know that Cora was his, that maybe whatever he'd heard, it wasn't quite the truth.
"What I've always wanted, Maeve."
She took a breath, couldn't keep herself from asking, "Have you been pretending to be my mother?"
Paul gave a half-laugh. "Your mother's dead."
"You think I don't know that?"
"Closed casket, wasn't it?"
In spite of herself, Maeve was caught off guard. "Yes, but how would you--"
"She was nothing but a charred, melting pile by the time I left her."
Maeve rose unsteadily.
"She lit up fast, burned bright, like one of those cheap Chinese fireworks."
"You--my mother--"
"No real loss, Maeve," He kept on as nonchalantly as if he were speaking about his breakfast. "You hated her as much as I did."
"No, I--but . . . why? Why would you--"
"Because she lied to me." Paul didn't move, and yet he seemed to Maeve to grow larger, to take up the entire room. "All I asked for was the truth, that's it . . . and she wouldn't give it to me."
Maeve sucked in a sharp breath, and Paul stopped talking, stared through the darkness at her, and in that black and blue, the shadows traced something demonic in his features. She couldn't respond, was too afraid of what she might say, of not knowing what would upset him or give him more information than he already had. But when he came toward her, eliminated that short distance between them, moving deceptively slowly, non-threateningly, Maeve couldn't help but try: "St-stop, Paul, please . . . !"
Her body leaned away instinctively, nowhere to go but down onto the sofa. She tried to brace herself for his overwhelming presence. She hated the way he made her feel, and she hated herself for loving it, as well.
"You don't change," he said, putting one hand between her shoulder blades and pulling her up in front of him. They were so close she was sure he could feel her heart beat against his own. "You're as seductive as the day I met you." He secured the gun in the back pocket of his jeans, took each of her wrists in his hands and held them straight down. He bent close toward her face, spoke so calmly, quietly, that his lips almost touched hers, that his breath brushed her cheek, and she felt sure she was losing herself in him, as she always did. "I always come back, don't I? No one else compares to you. I know you've waited for me, haven't you? Not let anyone else touch you? Because if you have, Maeve, I'll be upset."
He was fumbling with her wrists as he spoke, and before she'd even realized it, he had them zip-tied tightly together. She raised them against her chest, tried to pull them apart. "No--Paul--"
"You know I have to." He pressed her to him, began to kiss her ear, her neck, began to breathe heavier.
"Please, don't--just take this off--" But she could hardly speak for the distraction of him, of his hot mouth against her skin, his warm hand at her nape, and he knew he was winning, that he always won.
His fingers moved down her back, around to her front, undid the buttons of her pants and touched her. Moaning, Maeve halfheartedly, ineffectively protested, trying to push him back but not strong enough in any sort of way. Her legs trembled beneath her; she had to lean against him or sink. Why did her body react to him without her consent? He'd always had control of her, no matter how long he was away, no matter the distance between them, no matter how many terrible things she knew he did. There was so much wrong with her, so much to hate--the only thing--oh God! She couldn't think straight with him doing these things, so close, and it'd been so long, and he'd said no one compared to her, she was his—wasn't it right, good to belong to someone? Couldn't she forgive him for his flaws? Wasn't that what people in love were supposed to do?
"You've been lying to me, too, Maeve, haven't you?" He said it so naturally in the flow of what he was doing to her that she hardly heard him say it. "About our daughter--"
Daughter . . . ? Cora!
Remembering, Maeve put all her energy into shoving Paul away from her, but he'd anticipated her change in behavior and quickly grabbed her tied wrists, his grip so tight she cried out. At least she was able to think properly, though, without him touching her the way he'd been.
He'd changed entirely, too, his face now the frightening, familiar anger, his eyes like dark holes in his head, and he talked through his teeth at her. "Eighteen years? You hid her from me for eighteen years?"
"Paul--I couldn't--" But Maeve knew there was nothing she could say to assuage him. She'd never known what she'd say when he found out.
"I don't want daughters, Maeve. You of all people should know that."
She stopped struggling, hoping he'd calm down if she did. "She's s-so beautiful--she looks just l-like you--she--"
"She does look like me," he agreed, though his voice was cold, lacking any sort of pride. "At least I know she's mine."
"You've seen her?"
He didn't answer, just met her eyes with a simmering ferocity. "Daughters are worthless, always end up being some boy's test-run and then some man's whore. They live only to disappoint their fathers."
"What? That's--"
"That's wrong? Is that what you want to say? You aren't like that?" He got right up in her face to say it, smirked, then turned to leave the room, dragging her behind him by the zip-tie.
Where was he taking her? Maeve didn't know what she could possibly say to him, didn't understand his intentions except to fear them. And in only a few moments, they'd entered what looked like a closet until Paul flipped a light switch, revealing in all its illuminated bareness an enclosed laundry room, no windows, only shelving, a washer, and a dryer. Paul was lit too, now, and Maeve was nauseated to see that, even in the harsh light, he was as dangerously handsome as he'd always been.
Pulling a second zip-tie from his pocket, Paul wrapped and zipped one end around the tie binding Maeve's wrists, then reached up and zipped the other end around an overhead pipe. She'd tried to put up something of a fight, but he was so far beyond her efforts. When he'd secured everything, Paul picked Maeve up and sat her on top of the dryer, noting that her arms wouldn't hurt quite as much that way. The small gesture of thoughtfulness brought up a sob in her.
"Don't cry," he demanded, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his forehead to hers. "I just can't have daughters. You should've known."
Tears streamed down her face. "It's--it's why I couldn't tell you--"
"Because of the other one?" Paul squeezed her arms, some unidentifiable emotion working in him. "I told you, Maeve--we couldn't have been together if I hadn't done it. It was the only way to start over. You know I had to take care of them . . ." He embraced her, whispered almost tenderly, "We've always been in this together."
Maeve rubbed her damp cheek against his own rough face. She'd never asked about the baby's mother, but she'd known what he'd done, somewhere inside; she'd just been too frightened of the implications to admit it. "Cora's grown," she wept softly, afraid to speak. "She doesn't even know you--you can just go, never meet each other--she'll never hurt you . . ."
Paul paused, his lips hovering next to Maeve's. "It's too late for that. You have to understand . . . you can't lie to me."
He brushed aside her hair and gently kissed her forehead, then backed away, stepped toward the door. "Paul--Paul! Don't go . . . please!" Maeve slid off the dryer, pulled at the zip-tie holding her to the pipe.
"Be patient," the man added, flipping the light switch and casting them in shadow once more. "I won't be long."
"Don't touch her! Paul--? I swear to God I'll kill you . . . Paul!" The door shut on Maeve's cries, leaving her alone in the pitch black.