Shifting his footing, Kenneth takes the chair beside me rather than opposite. Heat prickles the back of my neck, the intimacy of his attention unnerving. Lifting a pastry, I nibble the corner, flakes sticking to my lips. I lick them away, ducking my headaway from Kenneth’s probing stare. At the same time, I slyly steal a glance towards the kitchen. Crooked cupboards fit the style of the rest of the house, a dripping faucet I can’t hear leaking into the basin.
The brush of a touch against my arm makes me flinch. Regaining my composure, I swallow hard and place the pastry back down.
“Can we have a microphone?” I ask, feeling the scrape of my throat and the shift of my lips, but I hear nothing. Kenneth, who is yet to touch his food, raises his hands to clumsily sign that he needs the practice. I withhold my frustration, biting back the groan that wants to surface. This isn’t the time for Kenneth to learn a new skill, it’s the time for answers. Painting a smile on my face, I lean my elbows on the table.
“That’s a great idea. We should start with finger spelling.” Looking over the tablecloth, I settle on something simple. “How did you sleep last night?”
‘G-o-o-d.’ Kenneth spells out slowly. I nod, focusing on keeping my breathing even.
“Me too,” I lie. “I figured you’d be there when I woke up.” Kenneth’s shoulders stiffen, an almost imperceptible tightening of muscle beneath his T-shirt.
‘Space,’ he signs this time. Kenneth wants to give me space in a house he’s trapped me in. I smile at the irony but pass it off as a friendly response. Clearing my throat, I work to keep my voice even, despite the way my pulse is racing. “It would be helpful if I knew what to expect today. If maybe…you could tell me what you wanted. What can I do to help you?”
Reaching out, I gently take one of Kenneth’s hands and notice that there’s a slight tremble to it. His gaze flickers down, the briefest droop of his eyes before he shrugs. It’s not an answer, but not a denial either.
“Kenneth, please. I want to help. Let me…be your friend.” The words feel risky on my tongue, a bridge I am not entirely sure I want him to cross. Kenneth doesn’t react, and it unnerves me. He chooses now to stop talking? Or is that why he won’t give me my hearing back, because he doesn’t trust himself not to overshare? The tension between us feels fragile, as if it might snap if I push too hard. But I can’t pull back now. I need answers.
“This house belongs to someone, and I don’t think it’s you.” Kenneth’s reaction is tiny, a blink too quick, a single tremor in his hand, but I caught it. That’s okay, I’m practiced in reading micro expressions. In seeing what others miss. I can play this game.
I let a beat of silence pass, watching him the way he watches me. Resting his other hand on the table, his fingers twitch once before he curls them into his palm as if he can trap the truth inside his own skin. I speak again, not asking, simply letting the weight of my words sink into him until his body tells me what his mouth and hands will not.
“This house belongs to a woman named Della Rae Taylor.” Right there. Another flicker behind his gaze. His lashes lower, his jaw shifting out of sync with the rest of his face for a single heartbeat. “You know this woman,” I continue, keeping my tone light and conversational, as though we are simply chatting over breakfast. This time, Kenneth has no reaction. Not a single twitch as a cold mask falls over his face. Okay, he doesn’t know Della, but somehow, we’ve ended up in her house. Licking my lips, I reevaluate.
“Is she the one who told you to bring me here?” I ask, ignoring the anxiety clawing within my chest. This time, Kenneth gives the smallest of shakes of his head. Every assumption I make only curates more confusion, my mindfeeling as if it’s stuffed with cotton so that none of the threads can quite match up.
“Okay. Let’s go back a step. Someone has leverage over you. Can you tell me what it is?”
Kenneth swallows hard. His hand slips from mine. Not in rejection, but more like reflex. He pushes his thumb into the space between his thumb and forefinger, applying enough pressure to turn his skin red. I let him calculate what he wants to say, how much he wants to let me in. Finally, at long last, he produces a microphone clip from his pocket and attaches it to his T-shirt collar.
“It was only meant to be about revenge. I just wanted to hurt him the way he hurt me, by taking away someone he cares about.”
“And you thought that was me? I barely knew him when all this started.” I raise my brow, trying to rein in the accusation that is punching to be free. It takes everything in me to grasp to the calm I’m exuding. Kenneth winces anyway.
“I tried…I…started with his mom. I’d go to visit her on weekends and during the holidays. I don’t know what I was planning, but the more I got to know her, the more I knew I couldn’t use her. She loves her boys. I think, if given enough time, she would have started to love me too.” He passes a clammy hand over his orange curls and lets it settle on his nape. “I know how it sounds, but I haven’t had a mom in so long. I kept visiting, and I’m sure she’s starting to remember me.”
“You care for her,” I smile gently. “You’re human, no one can fault you for that. But I can blame you for turning your attention onto me.” As my tone shifts, so does the dynamic. Kenneth’s cheeks become twinged with a red blush, his attention fixed upon his untouched plate.
“Everything up to Clayton’s locker was all part of getting my revenge. He’d left, I’d won, and to my surprise, we startedbecoming closer. I would talk to you for hours whilst you read, oblivious to my confessions. To my explanations.”
“Whilst wearing his clothes,” I interject before I can stop myself. Thinking back on those few weeks, I remember how I clung to Kenneth’s presence, believing we were experiencing the same loss. Dropping his hand from his nape, Kenneth shifts his shoulders, regaining some composure.
“I’ll admit, things became clouded. Once he’d gone, the pain stayed. I had my revenge, and it didn’t do a damn thing to help. I became…lost all over again. But then he returned and—,” Kenneth breathes shallowly, that tremble returning to his fingers.
“Things spiraled out of control. You went back to ignoring me, I got jealous, and… the voices.God, the voices just never, ever stop. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. After the, um,” Kenneth clears his throat, “the webcam recording, I was found out. There was so much leverage hanging over my head, and the threat of exposure quickly became a leash around my neck.”
I’ve never heard Kenneth speak so clearly. He’s hesitant, sure, but there’s not a trace of babble or stuttering passing through his lips. Tilting my head, I track his face for the micro expressions he can’t hide. He’s scared, yet strangely confident in his posture and seemingly comfortable in this house he claims to have no tie to.
At least now I have a timeline. Of course, it was impossible to track down the culprit of our taunts. There were multiple people involved. But maybe now I can pull apart the acts from the instigator. I can start mapping out who is pulling the strings now.
“Okay, so what’s the order?” I demand now, pushing my plate away. Kenneth’s throat works, his knee bouncing beneath the table as he decides to once again go silent. I’m not able to lethim withdraw, not when we’ve made some progress. “Kenneth? What’s the latest order? Keep me here until what?”
A distinct hardness falls over Kenneth’s muddy gaze, blocking me from seeing through him as easily. His hands still, his entire body going stiff as if he’s been frozen.
“Until they take the bait.”
“Wh…what?” I gasp quietly, the fragile control I had slipping out from beneath me. The room tilts slightly, my mind reworking those five words in the hopes of finding a new meaning. Yet, it’s hopeless. As hopeless as asking who ‘they’ are. I grasp onto the fact that Kenneth has intel I don’t, and he seems to think Clayton and Rhys will be looking for me. Maybe they already are. Ignoring the whirlwind of other emotions that rise, I cling to the notion that I can’t let them be lured in. I can’t let them succeed.
“So…it’s a trap,” I reiterate, wanting Kenneth to admit it. I want to hear those words, I need to understand the endgame. To scare, to punish, to harm?
