CHAPTER 11
Heather
At first, Zaid’s house felt like a maze. Endless hallways, rooms upon rooms, most of the areas locked. Whenever I found an accessible space, it rarely had anything in it. And it wasn’t long before those rooms were locked again, or I lost my way and forgot how to get back to those open areas. Sometimes, I pretended that Donna was messing with me. I teased her for it in the kitchen (met with a silent response, of course), but I knew better. Zaid kept too close of a watch on me to not know what was open or locked. Those rooms were left open for a reason.
So when I wandered around, daydreaming about Zaid’s hands on me, like the night at the Opulence, I almost didn’t notice when I came to a new room withmorethan books and furniture. I was hesitant.
But I knew he left it open for me. I went in.
Sunlight filtered through a small window, illuminating the specks of dust floating in the air. The room was stale, but the sourness was comforting, almost familiar. A twin bed was in the corner with a worn quilt on top of it. A bookshelf was against the wall, but instead of books, there were photographs lying frameless on the shelves. The photographs weren’t buried under dust or hidden in an album. They were on display, without frames, but still out in the open. For me to find.
The first photo: A woman, olive-skin, her dark hair hanging in drapes around her face, staring at the lens with piercing blue eyes. A slim turtleneck shirt, business pants, a shining belt, made the photograph seemed dated, maybe the nineties. On the back, written in beautiful cursive, was the statement:Zayda, 20 y/o.
Zayda. Almost like Zaid.
The next photograph had the same woman kneeling in front of a man with sallow, tanned skin, light hair, and dark, venomous eyes, his hands resting on the top of her head. It was a dynamic I felt familiar with now, a master and slave, but something felt wrong with it. His eyes. He seemed evil. On the back, in the same handwriting:Serving Eric.
The dynamic was what I had imagined: service. Eric was a common enough name, but it had to betheEric, especially if Zaid left the room purposefully unlocked. Had this woman, Zayda, served Eric like a slave?
Zayda. Was Zaid named after this woman? Who was she?
Another photograph had the same woman, on her knees, bowing her head, her arm around a small boy with the same dark hair, though he didn’t have her bright eyes. His eyes were dark brown instead of blue, but he was bowing too. A figure stood in the background, towering over them, the head cut off from the image. On the back:Zayda at Van’s initiation.
Van?
It dawned on me that perhaps Zayda was Zaid’s mother, or grandmother, or maybe his aunt, but the boy was throwing me off. He looked familiar and strange at the same time. Like having deja vu in a place you’ve never been. The rest of the photographs were similar: the same boy and woman, in different situations, the boy always young. But Eric remained in only one photograph.
Footsteps pattered in the hallway. I flinched and quickly put the photographs on the shelf, but stowed the one of ‘Van’s initiation’ in my back pocket. It’s not like I was stealing. Zaid had wanted me to find these photographs.
A flash of orange hair crossed the open door. But by the time I got to the hallway, no one was there.
Zaid’s house had yet another phantom. Another riddle to decipher. I shrugged.
I went to the room with the computer. On the screen, Hazel was sleeping, tucked into a ball on her bed. A pile of books rested on the plastic chair, with one thumbed open in her hand. I’d have to thank Zaid. I exited out of the program and tried to find a browser. After trying every key combination imaginable, an icon for the internet finally popped up. I typed:Zayda Van Zaidin the search bar.
Access Denied.
I sighed loudly, when another box popped onto the screen:Access Terminated.
“What the—” I started, but it was too late. The computer logged me out. I tried entering the password like Zaid had said, but it was no use.
A throat cleared, and the specter from before startled me. A short woman with bright orange hair tucked into a ball cap nodded at me.
“Hi,” I said, unsure of what to say. What do you say to a stranger when you’re living in someone else’s house?
“You must be Heather,” she said. Her voice was girlier than I expected, high-pitched, but demanding.
“I am. And you are?”
“Kiley.”
For a long moment, the two of us stared at each other awkwardly, both of us unsure of what to say next. She groaned.
“Zaid wants me to ask about your parents.” The agitation in her voice was obvious. Did she not want to be here? Was she an ex?
“How do you know Zaid?”
“I work for him.” She crossed her arms.
