Stefan moves and takes my arm, steering me closer to Wilbur and farther from the mess he doesn’t want me to see.
Wilbur flicks a glance at me, then turns his attention back to the monitor. I see a white flash, then hear the noise of something crashing into the patio outside. The motion triggers the lighting, and sixteen spotlights turn on in a flash, strewing bright beams across the fancy brickwork and moulded concrete.
A brick bounces against the glass, falling to the ground, leaving behind just a smudge where it struck. The windows must be reinforced. Makes sense. I can’t be the only person who wants to kill Wilbur.
“I told you to fuck off.” He releases the button and throws an annoyed frown at Stefan. “Can you go out there and talk some sense into him? The boy’s one of yours, isn’t he?”
I creep closer, a strange emotion pulling at my chest. The figure on the screen hurls something and I hear it smash to the ground outside. And again.
“Where the fuck did he find a collection of paving stones?” Wilbur shouts, hands pulling into fists as he stares in mounting fury at the tiny screen. Then he turns his glare full-beam onto Stefan. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
Stefan makes a gesture and Wilbur steps back, giving him access to the speaker. “Caylon?”
My heart picks up speed and I slide another step closer. It can’t be. I already went through the evidence in my head, and it said he was guilty. All the logic pointed towards him turning me into his boss to be hand-delivered to my captor.
I part my lips, angling my head to get a better view. There’s a low urgency in my voice when I ask, “Why did she come here?”
“For you, Emily. Why else d’you think?” He barely cuts his eyes my way. Intent on the screen. “Someone must’ve told her what her girl gets up to when she’s not around.” He snorts out a laugh. “She’s only a few years too late.”
My eyes steal back to the closed bathroom door. I remember sitting on the vanity unit inside, swinging my legs and talking a mile a minute while my mother cleaned. I’d been so happy to spend time here, getting her undivided attention for once. She’d been enrolled on the methadone program. Sticking with it for longer than she’d ever managed in the past.
It had seemed like everything might turn out okay. My home life looking more and more like the other girls at school. The ones I was so deeply envious of I could barely bring myself to talk to them.
“What did she say to you?”
Stefan presses the buzzer, releasing the locked gate and the tiny Caylon on the monitor comes bursting through.
There’s another locked door. Either the garage or the entryway depending on which way he turns.
My voice picks up urgency. I remember spending time with my mother and being annoyed when the man who employed her dropped by. I’d pretend to listen to his stories, watching my mother so I knew when to laugh, when to exclaim, when to fall silent.
I would politely wait out however long he insisted on butting into our alone time, then relax when he left to wander somewhere else in his enormous mansion.
Sometimes, he’d ask me to sit with him in his office or while he was making himself a snack in the kitchen. He’d tell me all about his life and how much money he made and how much he was worth and why everything he bought was better than anything anyone else could buy.
He was nice enough to listen to. He smelled good, and he was always kind. Always polite. Far more polite than a houseowner finding their maid’s kid hanging out in their home should be.
Then she suddenly stopped working here.
I thought it was because she relapsed again, hard.
Now, I can’t remember the order. Did she quit and then relapse or relapse and get fired?
I assumed it was the latter. For years, I believed it was the same old story.
My eyes sneak back to the bathroom, like some low magnetic current, so low it’s beneath my ability to notice, keeps pulling them in that direction.
I can hear Caylon banging at the side door, trying to gain entry. Hear Stefan yelling at him to calm the fuck down. Hear Wilbur storming about private property and how if he wants him to finish the job he started, then come right on in, he’s more than happy to grant his wishes.
My feet sneak a step towards the bathroom, then another. I’m right on top of the door. My hand reaches out for the handle, turns, pushes.
I catch a glimpse then slam the door shut, backtracking, trying to rewind one second to a past where I didn’t have that image in my brain.
I run, desperate to move, desperate to escape.
My mother isn’t good at life. Never has been. Oscillating between addiction and recovery and never finding a foothold in either patch.
Wilbur catches my arm, and I try to shake him off, punching at him when he doesn’t release me.
