“I don’t trust myself to be alone.” As if triggered by my admission, the scratches on my chest start to pulse. The pain in my lip returns, the weight of my soul dragging just that little bit heavier. But also in that instant, the tension in the air dissipates. Even without looking, I sense the ease rippling through his shoulders, the pity growing in his expression. I bet he’s glad to know I’m just as fucked up as him on the inside.
I remain stiff, refusing to take part in whatever bro-to-bro bonding is happening. Clayton isn’t my bro, he’s my enemy. The rival who’s after my girlfriend’s heart. Yes, girlfriend. I’ve decided it is so, and that’s a done deal. Harper is mine. She belongs to me.
The mattress behind me dips, and I launch to my feet, fearful that Clayton is about to do something stupid like hug me. In fact, he’s on the far side of the bed with no notion of hugging in his stoic gaze, but one can never be too careful.
Lacking anything else to do, I fold my arms and lean against the window, praying the glass doesn’t give out. The silence is suffocating, the fragile truce we’re clinging to one thread away from snapping. Maybe this is as close to peace we’re going toget. Not forgiveness and definitely not friendship. Just two men waiting for morning, haunted by the same girl, and praying she’s still out there to come back to.
“We need to brainstorm our next move,” I state coldly. There’s no use making small talk whilst waiting for the food to arrive. We might as well be productive.
“Actually,” Clayton scrubs a hand over his face and pins me with another one of his signature glares. “I’ve already had an idea, and you’ll need to be on your best behavior.” I grimace, my left eye starting to twitch again.
“I hate this plan already.”
Chapter Seven
Kenneth didn’t return ‘shortly’, as he stated. In fact, he didn’t return at all last night. I rouse from my sleep, but I don’t open my eyes just yet. Unable to hear, I use my other senses to take stock of myself. My back is slightly locked, this mattress as equally lumpy and springy as the one in the attic. My limbs are stiff, but they’ll carry me for whatever today brings. The small grace I’m offered is the light bleeding through my lids, the sun projecting from the window I’ve been granted. Finally, I can get my bearings and some sense of time.
Without anything else to gauge from lying here, I crack my lids, relieved to find I’m still alone. Daylight softens the aged wallpaper around me, pale streaks cutting across the dust in the air and warming the blanket tangled around my legs. I lift my head slowly, bracing for the stab behind my eye that, thankfully, never comes. The headache has eased into something manageable, a background twinge instead of a hammer to the skull. My throat is dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Pushing myself upright, I blink until the blur fades and the room sharpens into focus.
Just as it was last night, it’s painfully bare. Opposite the bed is a rickety dresser with one drawer hanging crooked, and a tiny desk has been pushed beneath the window. The drinking glass sits empty now, reflecting the light like a spyglass. I slide off the mattress and pad across the rough carpet in my socks, heading for that window. It’s small, square, the glass fogged from age, but I stand on tiptoe and peer out anyway. There’s a yard, a fence, and the edge of a road just beyond. Kenneth told me there were no neighbors to hear me screaming if I were to try, and I can’t see the shadow of any buildings, so I guess he wasn’t lying. We’re secluded out here.
I test the window latch out of habit, even though I know it won’t budge. It rattles, locked tight, and the frame itself looks screwed into the wall with fresh hardware. He also wasn’t lying about ‘Harper proofing’ the house.
Swallowing my disappointment, I pivot toward the door. A steel plate has been bolted over the knob from the outside, screws fresh and silver against the old wood. It wouldn’t take Kenneth long to unbolt it, but I’d need tools or a miracle if I were to pry it off myself. I press my fingertips to the seam, tracing the faint vibration thrumming through the wood. Is it footsteps or some kind of movement beyond the door? Or is it just my heartbeat thumping against my ribcage?
Withholding my frustrated huff, just in case he’s listening for signs of life, I gently pad back into the center of the room, trying to calm the restless buzz under my skin. It’s not Kenneth I’m fearful of, but whoever seems to be calling the shots. I need a way to defend myself.
The mattress is too light to barricade anything. The dresser could be tipped, its legs removed and shattered into a makeshift stake. No doubt I’d gain a host of fresh splinters, if the wood holds up against the termites I’m presuming are hollowing it out from the inside. Damn, I’m screwed.
A faint shift in the light draws my attention to the gap beneath the door. A shadow steps into view. I straighten, my pulse leaping in my throat, unsure what to do with my hands. The door cracks open, a head of vibrant orange curls poking through. Noticing that I’m awake and standing, Kenneth steps inside wearing a black hoodie and baggy jeans. Not the kind of look one would expect from their abductor.
Pushing his sleeves up, Kenneth holds out his hands in front of him.
‘Breakfast?’ he signs hesitantly, watching his hands. Flicking his gaze upwards, his expression appears hopeful, pleading and unsure. I square my shoulders, keeping my expression neutral even as my stomach tightens with a mix of dread and strategy. I nod, slowly making my way towards him. Kenneth’s smile is watery as he steps aside and permits me to enter the hallway.
This is good. If I remain calm and compliant, he’ll trust me again. I hold onto the faith that I might be able to talk my way out of here before Kenneth’s boss turns up. Or at least, that’s who I’m presuming he’s fearful of.
Creeping along inch by inch, Kenneth doesn’t rush me. Nor does he redirect my eyes from exploring as I go. Letting my other senses compensate for the one I no longer have, I feel the creak of the floorboards through my soles, the faint vibration rising up my legs and settling in my spine. My heart thumps hard enough to make me lightheaded, and every shadow seems to pull at my nerves.
I glance up at the attic hatch above me, its outline stark and accusing. I can’t help imagining him shoving me back up there if he thinks I am slipping out of control. I wonder if he has more of whatever he drugged me with, tucked away in this aged, bleak house.
Five rooms line the hallway, including the one I was put in. We pass a bathroom that’s décor bounders on offensive. Thebasin and toilet are a shocking shade of mint green, and the tiles are a mix of beige and faded yellow that make the whole room look like it was abandoned mid-renovation in the nineties. Further down the hall, I find a strange excuse for a music room in which the layout makes no sense. Leather sofas hug the walls, leaving the middle strangely empty except for a single upright piano coated in a layer of dust. No music stands, no sheet music or other instruments.
Turning away with a frown, I notice that Kenneth is watching me closely. He doesn’t try to communicate, but he lets me continue my snooping. Ignoring the only closed door, figuring it’s Kenneth’s private space, I peer into the last room at the end of the hall. It’s a hoarder’s paradise, the air thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten stories. Boxes tower against the walls, some collapsed inward from the weight of being stacked on top of one another. Amongst broken and forgotten knickknacks, papers scatter across the floor, tinged yellow as if they’ve gone stale.
I crouch beside the nearest box, pushing aside a chipped porcelain angel to read the name scribbled across a stack of documents.Miss Della-Rae Taylor.Whoever she is or was, her entire life seems to have been stuffed into this room and left to rot. The only window in here is uncovered and streaked with grime, but spears of sunlight manage to break through to shine upon a heap of dress bags draped over an armchair. Sequins glint through the translucent plastic, hinting at gowns inside that once meant something to someone. Now they sit like relics in a shrine no one visits.
“Is there any point in asking who she is?” I direct at Kenneth once I’ve stood back to my full height. His eyes skate across the room, returning to mine with a slight pout and a shrug. Interesting. He’s the one who brought me here, using the house as a hiding place when in fact, it’s a graveyard of someone’smemories. A life that’s been boxed up, stashed away and left behind.
Dusting my hands on the clean sweatpants that Kenneth left in the bathroom last night, I wander back to the top of the staircase. If I’m not going to get any answers, I might as well get that breakfast he mentioned.
My hand trails along the railing as I descend the stairs, each step slow and cautious, my senses stretched thin in the silence wrapped around me. I don’t know what to expect, and since Kenneth won’t grant me the gift of my hearing, I don’t even know if we’re alone.
The lower floor opens into a space that feels both lived in and abandoned, the mismatched furniture giving the place an odd, unsettled charm. Passing through the dated living area, Kenneth stops beside one of the dining chairs, gesturing to a table that has already been set for two. His eyes track me as I approach and slide into the chair opposite him.
Cutlery sits slightly askew beside plates of food. An odd mix of pastries and toast, all squashed together as if Kenneth couldn’t decide which he might want. My stomach betrays me with a tight twist, groaning at the sweet and buttery scents drifting through the otherwise stale air.
I’m thankful for the step up from the doughnut diet I was subjected to in the attic, but as I sit, it’s not the food my mind is on. It's the gleam of the cutlery. The very real metal knife and fork he’s provided without a second thought. So much for Harper proofing. He’s provided me with two blunt weapons to eat finger food with. My hand hovers over the fork before closing around it, grounding myself with its cool weight.
