The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
I’m going to do it.
I’m going to sleep with Sam tonight.
The emerald silk dress clings to my curves, dipping in at my waist and draping my breasts in a cowl neckline. A little ruffle running along the thigh split draws attention to my freshly-tanned legs, and the black Yves Saint Laurent Opyum stilettos make my five-foot-ten frame even taller.
A lot has changed since my eighteenth birthday. Bi-weekly pizza nights have given me hips and an ass, and I’ve finally invested in a pair of good hair straighteners.
My panties are still pathetically sensible and my pajamas are still Sesame Street themed, but I’m feeling more and more like a woman every day.
So why not? Why not sleep with him? That’s what nineteen-year-old women do. They have sex.
Right?
I take a swig of wine and pick up my cell from my dresser. I wish Nellie was here, but Matty, the guy from our Investing 101 class she’s had a crush on all year, has finally asked her to come over to Netflix and Chill.
My cell lights up with two messages. One from Nellie wishing me good luck tonight, and another from Sam saying that he can’t wait to see me.
The nervous tension vibrates around my body and I feel like I’m physically buzzing. A quick glance at the time tells me I’ve got five minutes before Sam arrives. I spritz the perfume he bought me for Valentine’s Day, then pick up my overnight bag and head down to the lobby.
There’s a black car waiting at the bottom of the stone steps but it can’t possibly be for me. It’s sleek and expensive-looking with tinted windows. As I approach the automatic doors, the driver’s door opens and a man in a well-fitted suit comes out to greet me.
“Let me help you with that, madame,” he says, taking my duffel with one swift motion. I stand awkwardly as he slips it into the trunk, then opens the passenger door for me.
Jeez, Sam has really gone all out,I think, sliding my ass across the butter-soft leather seat. The red brick buildings of Stanford University fade in the rearview mirror, and as the wide, tree-lined streets pass in a glittery blur outside the window, I reach into my clutch and pull out the original letter. It’s still in its envelope; I couldn’t bear to throw something so beautiful away, mainly because of the intricate wax seal. The cursive writing feels textured under my fingertips, and I trace the outline of my name: Miss Poppy Murphy.
Suddenly, a feeling of unease creeps over me. It starts at the nape of my neck, raising every hair and goosebumps on my skin as it travels down my arms and legs. In my excitement in receiving the letter, I tore it open and didn’t give the address on the envelope a second thought.
Poppy Murphy.
Nobody at Stanford knows my last name is Murphy. I took my mother’s maiden name, Valentina, the second I touched down in California.
Murphy is from my past. From the life I’ve worked so desperately to out-run.
An ice-cold hand claws at my throat, and with trembling fingers, I flip over the envelope and bring the wax seal up to the blur of the passing streetlamps to see it clearer. The pads of my fingertips trace the “O” and it feels disgustingly oily under my touch. Only now, do I realize that the near-perfect shape is interrupted at the bottom right with a small flick.
It’s not an O. It’s a Q.
Q for Quinn.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
It takes me three attempts to enter the passcode of my cell allowing me to tap out a frantic message to Sam.
Did you send a car for me?
The reply is instant.
Car? No, lol. I’ll come and pick you up in ten mins. Booked a table at your fave place. Guess where? x
My heart plummets to the soles of my stilettos, and my mind goes into overdrive, flicking through the last week, going through every conversation I’ve had with Sam with a mental fine-tooth comb. Never once did he hint about taking me out for my birthday. When he called me last night, he never dropped any kind of hint about the letter — and I was too stupefied with the idea of sleeping with him to bring it up.
“Can you pull over?” I croak towards the partition. The words come out of my mouth like thick syrup. No response. “Hey—can you pull over please?” Nothing but the purr of the engine. I lunge over, rapping my sweaty knuckles against the glass. “Pull over!” I scream, hysteria rising in my throat like bile, “Let me out, now!”
We slow to meet the red light. Only then does the driver turn around. “I can’t do that, Miss Murphy,” he says.
The air leaves my lungs as I try the door handle. Nothing. I slam my fists and elbows and even the pointed heel of my stilettos against the passenger window, and it doesn’t even vibrate under my touch.
As the car turns into a glittery street lined with sleek bars and restaurants, I find myself squeezing my eyes shut.
What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you.
But I’m not a naive little girl anymore.
I know that I will see the Devil tonight. And he will hurt me in ways I can’t even imagine.