I watch as she shuffles to the car, hand pausing briefly on the handle before sliding into the back seat.
I blow out my clenched breath just as Joe’s shouts start sounding out from inside. I turn, wandering in toward the noise in savage curiosity.
The house hasn’t changed one bit.
Sure, maybe in the minor, surface-level aspects—a new piece of furniture here, an odd stack of books there—but the bones of this house stand strong, warped by the foul history and neglect they were dealt with through the years.
I wander past the eroded peach sofa. Instead of taking me back to all the times Mom and I would curl up, watching movie marathons and sneaking ice cream, all I see is the washed-out pink stain I caught her trying to scrub out early one morning after a particularly bad fight with Joe.
I stroll past the dining table, remembering all of the nights I would go to bed with a growling stomach because Joe gambled our grocery money away.
Screams continue to radiate through the room, likely the outcome of Mikhail’s talented exertions. I’m not too worried about someone hearing him and reporting us. After all, each of our neighbors has listened to years of screams, and none have ever offered anything more than insolent looks and judgmental glares.
When I finally reach the kitchen, I find Joe tied to a chair, my fiancé grinding a metal needle under his index fingernail with a broad smile on his face. Shaking my head in some fucked-up kind of morose humor, I turn from the violent scene, seeking out something else.
The wooden surface, so often replicated in my nightmares through the years, stands dull and worse for wear. The long-tarnished gold knob fits loose in its slot, and the expanse of the door is dented high and low, having endured fists and boots and insufferable anger.
I tilt my head, considering the utterly ordinary structure.
“You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you and your mother for this! I provided for you all your life, and this is the treatment you give me? Siccing your boyfriend on me?”
Joe’s voice is impossible to avoid, the particular tone tensing my muscles from ingrained memory.
“You think you can get away with this? You think?—”
I flinch when the voice cuts off on a strangled sound. When I glance back toward the pair, I see Mikhail’s hands wrapped around his slimy tongue and a pair of shears balanced in his other palm.
Mikhail’s eyes are on me, though. My fiancé’s face is flooded with a patient expression of love and assurance, those dark blue orbs absorbing all of my discomfort.
And when I turn back to the closet, I can finally see it for what it is.
An absolute load of shit.
It’s just a crappy excuse for a storage closet. Though the idea of stepping inside still makes my nerves itch with anxiety, it doesn’t remind me of failure anymore. In fact, it’s not tied to me at all.
It’s just a stupid closet, Sophia’s voice whispers in my ear, and a small, proud smile ticks up the corner of my lips.
“Ready, Menace?” Mikhail asks in the soft voice he only uses with me. I walk over to where my stepfather is now being held in place by Ivan, Mikhail circling close behind me. His left hand slides across my waist in a steady show of support. In his right lies a silver handgun, suppressor already screwed onto the barrel.
The familiar grooves of the weapon slide across my hand like an old friend.
When Joe spots the gun, the screams kick up in volume, thundering through the house in a final hurrah.
All I hear is white noise.
And as I indent the tip into the damp, sweaty wrinkles lining his forehead, all I feel is the cool calm of peace.
Cassandra
“Mrs. Solokov, your husband’s here.”
A smile takes over my face as I tear my focus from the budget I’ve been working on all afternoon.
I nod to my assistant. “You can send him in, Ruby.”
A few moments later, Mikhail’s large form fills my brand-new office door, a sly grin tilting his lips.
“Hi, baby. I thought you weren’t coming in until later?”
