Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Read online

  Another step farther into the house. More damage. A leather loafer lies on its side in the hallway leading to the bedroom, chewed to bits. Another few steps—a hooded sweatshirt, torn to pieces, chewed, wet with doggy saliva. The other loafer, similarly destroyed.

  “Goddamn it.” Logan sighs, but doesn’t seem angry. “Cocoa? C’mere, girl! Daddy’s home!”

  Daddy’s home. That hurts my heart in an odd, terrifying place. I stuff that hurt down, stuff the simmering thoughts and fears down. It’s not true. Not possible. It’s just not. Just no.

  I follow Logan into the hallway. More clothes are strewn across the floor in the hallway, all of them chewed, slobbered on, utterly shredded. No sign of Cocoa, though. A thudding sound is audible, however: thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. A tail hitting a mattress, possibly?

  Logan kicks at the piles of destroyed clothing. Shirts, slacks, shoes, boots, a leather jacket. A towel.

  We arrive at the doorway of the spare room where Logan keeps Cocoa while he’s gone. The doorway is . . . just gone. Splintered. There’s a bit of door attached at the hinges, the shredded, splintered frame, the knob on the floor. But the door itself? No more. Splinters coat the carpet in the spare room, lie scattered across the hardwood floor of the hallway in a blast radius that extends into the bathroom and Logan’s room. It looks like explosive charges were leveled at the door.

  My heart in my throat, I follow Logan into his bedroom, peering over his shoulder.

  The room is wrecked. The TV has been knocked over, shattered. The bedside lamp, same. The headboard has been chewed to splinters, same with the footboard. The blankets and sheets are twisted into a pile on the bed, chewed, slobbered, clawed. And in the middle of the bed, under the pile of sheets and blankets? Cocoa.

  Tail thumping steadily. Chin on her paws, ears drooping. Eyes wide. The perfect picture of canine innocence.

  “Holy fucking shit, Cocoa!”

  I’m not sure what to expect from him. Anger? Frustration, at least. Instead, he kneels on the floor, pats his thigh.

  “Cocoa. Come.” His voice is low, but firm. Not angry, not threatening.

  She shimmies like liquid, inches toward the edge of the bed, but doesn’t get down.

  “Cocoa, come here. Now, girl.”

  That gets her. She hops off the bed but immediately goes down to her belly, tail tucked under, head to the floor. Her eyes never leave Logan. She shimmies closer and closer until she’s at Logan’s feet.

  “What did you do, Cocoa?” He seems close to laughter. Holding it in, but barely.

  “She looks so sorry, Logan!” I say.

  “She missed me. I’ve never been gone this long. She was afraid.” He goes to his butt on the floor, grabs the dog around her middle, and hauls her onto his lap. She rolls to her back, tail beginning to thud once more, and then leans up and licks his chin. Hesitantly, at first, but then with increasing happiness. “I know, girl. I know. I missed you too. It’s okay, I’m here.”

  I have to hold back tears. Something about the sight of Logan with his beloved puppy on his lap—a giant, eighty-pound puppy—reunited, happy, it makes me emotional.

  Damn it—no.

  I blink it all away, kneel beside man and dog, and scratch Cocoa on her head, behind her ears. She gives me a quick wet doggy kiss, and then goes back to Logan. She scrambles to her feet, backs up, and then seems to notice the bandage. She gives a long, high-pitched whine from the back of her throat and sniffs the bandage covering his eye. Glances at me, as if for answers, and then at Logan. Puts her front paws on his legs and sniffs, sniffs, sniffs. Whines again.

  God, that’s so sweet. She’s worried about him. She sees he’s hurt, and wants to know what’s going on.

  I’m fighting tears again, damn it.

  “I’m fine, girl. I promise.” He palms her ears and rubs vigorously, until she pulls away and shakes her head so her ears flop wildly.

  I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just . . . emotional. Nearly a week spent at Logan’s side in the hospital, sleeping poorly in the visitor’s chair. They let me stay through the night in contravention of visitors’ hours, because I have nowhere else to go, and because I think Logan somehow bribed or otherwise convinced/coerced them into letting me. I’m just emotional. There’s a lot going on, a lot to be worried and emotional again.

  Logan hands me his phone. “Can you call Beth? Let her know what’s going and that we need help cleaning up. I don’t really do PAs, but she’s the closest thing I’ve got. The code is seven-nine-one-five.” He stands up, pats his thigh. “Go outside, Cocoa?”

  He’s gone, the dog’s claws scrabbling on wood, doing her happy yes-I-want-to-go-outside yipping bark.

  I stare at the phone for a moment. 7-9-1-5; type it in, and the phone unlocks. The picture in the background behind the rows of icons is me. Asleep, in Logan’s bed. Before I got my haircut, when it was still long. It’s splayed around my head on Logan’s white pillow, like spilled ink. My face is twisted to the side, and my hand is curled in front of my face. I look serene, beautiful, at peace.

  7-9-1-5.

  07-09-15.

  The date we met. The date of the stupid auction party I went to with Jonathan.

  That sends a spasm of emotion through me too, that the date we met is his unlock code for his phone.

  I crush the emotion, ruthlessly, and find Beth’s name in the contacts. Dial.

  “Hey, boss. How are you feeling? We’re all worried about you.” The voice is high and sweet, a little too much of both.

  “Beth? It’s—this isn’t Logan. Obviously. It’s Isabel.”

  “Isabel?” A silence, which somehow feels confused. “Ohhhhhh. Isabel. The Isabel?”

  “I guess? Unless he knows another one.”

  “No, no. Just you.” Another silence. “So, what—um . . . how can I help you?”

  “Did you come to his house and check on Cocoa at all?”

  Beth responds immediately, a little defensively. “Yes! I went over the moment he e-mailed me. I fed her, let her out, made sure she had some water. I even threw the ball for her a bit. She’s such a sweet dog.”

  “She really is. It’s just—”

  “I went back the next day, too. Not yesterday, because I got swamped with work. I meant to, but I just—” Beth cuts herself off. “Did something happen? Is she okay?” Beth sounds worried.

  “She’s fine, yes. But she got out.”

  “Got out? How? I shut the door, I’m sure I did. I even checked to make sure it latched all the way.”

  “She kind of clawed through the door. Like, destroyed it completely. Along with a lot of Logan’s clothes and his TV. It’s a mess. He asked me to call you and see if you would come and help clean up.”

  “Through the door? Geez. Okay, well sure, I’ll be right there. But—why are you calling? Is Logan okay?”

  “He’s with Cocoa. They’re reuniting, I guess.” I’m not sure what he told her about how badly he’s hurt. Best to let him handle that.

  “Okay, well, I’ll be there in a little bit.” Another silence. This one feels bated. “All he would tell me is that there was an accident. Is he—is Logan okay? He’s never been gone this long.”

  “I—I’m not sure what I should say, honestly. That’s something he should tell you, not me.”

  “It’s bad. You would tell me if it was nothing important.”

  “So we’ll see you soon?” I really don’t know how to answer, so I avoid the question.

  A sigh. “Yeah. Half hour, forty-five minutes or so.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  The line goes dead, and I lock the phone, set it on the bedside table. Stare around me at the mess, let out a haggard breath. I feel so tired, suddenly. But the bed is torn up, and the floor is buried under shredded clothes. The closet door is open, yanked off the track, hanging askew. Clothes dan
gle partially ripped off hangers, and more hangers are strewn on the floor. More clothes are piled on the floor at the bottom of the closet, but those don’t seem destroyed.

  I right the TV, set it with great difficulty onto the stand. It is massive, heavy, but I manage it. Strip the bedclothes from the mattress, toss them aside. Begin tossing destroyed clothing onto that pile, handfuls at a time, until there’s nothing left but the pile on the floor of the closet.

  “Isabel, what are you doing?” Logan, from behind me.

  I shrug, gesture at the bed. “I wanted to lie down, but the bed is a mess, and so is the floor. Anyway, Beth will be here soon.”

  “You should have left it. That’s why I pay Beth.”

  “I thought she wasn’t your personal assistant?”

  “She’s not. But she’s always eager for any excuse to get out of the office, so I send her on errands.” He rights the lamp. Stares at me from across the bed. “Isabel, I didn’t mean to sound like I was handing out orders, earlier.”

  “Facts are facts, Logan. If you hadn’t gotten involved with me, you wouldn’t have been shot. That’s a fact. The only reason you’re alive is because either Caleb is a poor shot, or you got really lucky. You could be dead right now.”

  “And like I said, I knew there was a risk Caleb would lash out at me at some point. I took the risk to get involved with you understanding that was a possibility. That absolves you of any guilt. If you’d lied about him or something, that’d be different. But I knew.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. You were shot. You lost an eye. Because of me.”

  Logan rounds the end of the bed, grabs me by the arms, holds me at arm’s length. “Stop. Please. I’m okay. I’m alive. Yeah, I’m short an eyeball. But now I get to wear an eyepatch and act like a pirate, and no one can say shit about it.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “God, Logan. You are ridiculous. You would do that, wouldn’t you?”

  He crooks an index finger into a hook. “Arrrgh, matey. You bet your doubloons I would!”

  “That’s a terrible pirate voice.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s hear you do better.”

  I shake my head and stifle another laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, then you can’t knock mine if you won’t try it.”

  “I can criticize without emulating, Logan.”

  “Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach become critics.”

  “I’m not saying I’m a professional pirate voice critic—”

  Logan bursts out laughing, drowning me out and cutting me off. “Professional pirate voice critic? And I’m ridiculous?”

  “Yes.” I sound petulant.

  “Come on, Is. Just give me one little ‘arrrgghhh, matey!’”

  “No.”

  He ducks so his face is in front of mine and makes a pathetic moue. “You wouldn’t say no to a one-eyed man, would you?”

  “Oh my God. You’re guilting me?”

  He shrugs. “If it’ll get you to loosen up, sure. Might as well get some mileage out of my . . . life-altering injury.”

  “Logan.”

  “Too soon?”

  “Yes. Way too soon.” I glance at him. “And . . . loosen up? What does that mean?”

  “Just that you’re a little uptight. Wound tight, you know? You take everything so seriously.” A shrug. His voice is matter-of-fact, as if everyone should know this.

  “I am not uptight.”

  He laughs, a sharp bark. “You are too! I think I’ve heard you say, like, three jokes in the entire time I’ve known you. That, my sexy little Spanish beauty, is the epitome of uptight. If you don’t tell jokes, shit will make you crazy. Lighten up.”

  “And to, as you say, lighten up, I should speak in a dreadfully historically inaccurate pirate voice?”

  “It’s a broad caricature, Isabel. It’s socially understood to be humorous rather than accurate. If you want to be all uptight about it.”

  I glare at him. But then, because he has a way of pulling things out of me, I curl my lip and make my voice rough. “Arrrrggghhh.”

  “She has a sense of humor!” Logan waves his hands in the air. “Gods be praised!”

  “I have a sense of humor.”

  “Then tell a joke.”

  “A joke?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes. A joke. Tell me a joke.”

  “Why did the—”

  “That’s not a joke. Try again.”

  I think hard but come up blank. “I don’t know any jokes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “Did you hear about the pirate movie?”

  “What pirate movie?”

  “It was rated arrrgghhhh.”

  “Oh my God. That’s terrible.”

  “What did the first mate see when he looked in the toilet?”

  “Logan—”

  “The captain’s log.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Why couldn’t the pirate play cards?”

  I stare at him. “Logan.”

  “Guess.”

  “I don’t know.”

  A beat of silence. For emphasis, probably. “Because he was sitting on the deck.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “Funnier than the joke you told.”

  “But I didn’t tell one.”

  “Exactly!” He stabs a finger at me. “Now try the arrrgghhh again. This time with feeling!”

  I hesitate. It’s stupid. So, so stupid. But it’s for Logan. “Arrrgghh.”

  “That was pathetic. You aren’t even trying.” He clears his throat. “AAARRRGGGHHH!”

  “I’m not doing that.” But I’m fighting a grin.

  “Sissy.” He sticks his tongue out at me. “Stick-in-the-mud.”

  “Name calling, Logan? Really?”

  “You won’t even arrgghh like a pirate. What are you afraid of?”

  “AAARRRGGGHHH!” I do it loud and deep.

  And Logan’s face lights up. “There you go! That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Was it funny?”

  He nods. “Hysterical.” Pulls me close. Kisses me. “Knock knock.”

  “Um.”

  “Jesus, Isabel, it’s a knock-knock joke. You say, ‘Who’s there?’”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Boo.” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “Now you say, ‘Boo who?’”

  “Boo who?”

  “Hey, whatcha cryin’ for?” Another kiss, this one to my throat.

  I laugh, because I can’t help it. “How can you make jokes at a time like this?”

  He shrugs. “How can I not? I don’t know how to deal with this shit, Isabel. It’d be all too easy to feel sorry for myself, to let myself get all depressed and mope around like a sad sack of shit. But I refuse to let myself do that. Am I suppressing some of my more negative emotions? Probably. Am I overcompensating with humor? Again, probably. But how else am I supposed to cope, Isabel?” He shoots me a glance. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘laugh or go crazy’?”

  “No, but there’s an in-between, isn’t there?”

  “Not really. I’m not making light of this. I just . . . I have to cope somehow, babe. Humor is how I’m doing it.” He sighs. “If I don’t, I’ll mope and be depressed and get all ragey. It’ll be terrible. So just . . . humor my inappropriate humor. Okay?”

  I nuzzle against him. “Okay. Just . . . try to let me help you. Please?”

  “I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.” He taps my nose with his forefinger. “Now, let me hear the arrgghh again. Even louder this time, and with feeling.”

  I sigh, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. “Fine.” Like he did, I clear my throat. “AAARRRGGGHHH!”
Loud as I can.

  And that’s when we hear a throat clear behind us. “Um . . . hey, Logan. Did I miss the pirate convention?”

  He turns. “There ya aarrgghh! Right on time.”

  Beth is silent for a very long time. “Logan? What—what happened?”

  Unlike many people, Beth’s voice and physical appearance match perfectly. High, sweet voice, like a slightly overeager schoolteacher, perhaps; short, slender, not exactly beautiful, but attractive. Bobbed blond hair. Unassuming. It’s easy to skip right over Beth in a crowd.

  He waves in dismissal. “Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

  “That looks pretty serious.” Beth seems close to tears.

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  He hesitates. “I—got mugged. The gun went off. Missed my brain via my eyeball. And now I’m a pirate. Gonna get a patch and everything.”

  “How can you be telling jokes at a time like this, Logan?” Beth hasn’t moved from the entryway, a box of contractor garbage bags in hand.

  “This is starting to feel like déjà vu.” He groans. “When things are at their hardest and most painful is the best time to tell jokes, Beth.”

  Beth is just blinking. Staring. “You lost your eye?”

  Logan shrugs. “Well, I haven’t seen underneath the bandage, but that’s what they told me at the hospital, yes.” He grabs the box of garbage bags from Beth. “So. We’ll just bag up and toss all the ruined clothing and clean up the remnants of my door. Also have to order a new TV and have the broken one removed. I will also need an eyepatch supplier. I don’t even know where to get them. Is there, like, an eyepatch store? I’ll want cool ones, not just plain boring black ones. You can probably get them online, I’m guessing.”

  “See, I’m not sure if you’re joking or not.” A pause. “About the eyepatches, I mean.”

  “Not at all. I knew a guy in Blackwater who was missing an eye. He was support staff. Super cool guy. A real tough motherfucker. Like, the real deal. Scary as hell. So, if he was in the office, doing everyday sort of work, he left his eye socket empty, didn’t cover it, no prosthetic. It was . . . creepy, I don’t mind admitting. Just disconcerting. You couldn’t help but stare, you know? That was just how Eric was, though. Didn’t give one single shit what anyone thought. If he had to dress up at all, he’d wear a patch. He just had this one. He had a guy in our unit that was a pretty fantastic artist draw an amazingly lifelike eye on the patch, so it was even more disconcerting than without it, in a way. And I always thought, if I were to ever lose an eye, I’d get all sorts of cool shit to cover it. Like, steampunk, or Goth, funny designs, holiday patches, all that. A collection, as it were. And now that I’ve actually gone and lost my eye, that’s what’s happening. So, yeah, totally serious. Get me options.”