Sunday dawns gray and stormy, thunder jolting me awake, sweat coating my skin.
Another nightmare. I thought I’d banished them, that the sea and a plan had washed the terror away. But the longer I’m back, the more my anxiety gnaws at me.
Killing a man didn’t help.
I can’t figure out whether avoiding that truth or forcing myself to sit with it will get me through this. I asked Falk, and he had no recommendations, only saying that after you kill enough people, you compartmentalize it. So, no help from that quarter.
Out of obvious solutions, I crawl from the pile of blankets and into the shower, giving myself until I’m clean to cry.
Is it possible to mourn the death of someone you hated? Is that healthy or maladaptive?
I have to assume Smith had family, friends, somebody somewhere who will always wonder what happened to him. Even if he didn’t, his life was still cut short. Someone should mourn that, shouldn’t they?
Even if it’s the person who killed him?
I’ve replayed those two moments over and over again, both my shooting him and his trying to shoot me.
It’s clear that was his intention. If Jansen hadn’t been there, I’d be dead right now. Does that make what I did better? In one way, it was kill or be killed. But in another, he didn’t stand a chance. No way to fight back. No guardian angel to fall from the sky to keep his death from my hands.
My mind a mess, I get out of the shower and put on one of the stuffy outfits that came with the room, wondering how I can get to Trips’ dad. I’ve been summoned, but I’ve never forced a meeting, and I don’t even know how I would go about it.
I heard Trips’ strangled cries for hours last night. He’s breaking, and if Trips’ dad wants a baby as badly as he seems to, he needs to set Trips free. But that means I have to convince the devil that it’s time.
I’m not sure I’m up for it.
Like every other morning this week, there’s a knock on my door, and I open it to find another nameless guard there. “You’re free to explore the estate today, as long as you’re accompanied. You have a meeting with the wedding planner at one, and a dress fitting at three,” he says.
“And if I wanted to see Mr. Westerhouse?” I ask.
“Fatheror one of his sons?”
“Father,” I clarify, weirded out once again that Trips shares his name with his monster of a father.
“I’ll put in a request,” he says, pulling out his cellphone.
I find my way to the kitchen, where Mary smiles, her eyes bright when she sees I’m still free to roam the house. “Breakfast, my dear?”
“Please,” I say, pulling a stool up to the counter, ignoring who knows how many fancier places to eat, just like I have the rest of the week.
What Trips’ dad has on Mary is a question without an answer. She’s sweet, capable, and genuine in a way that I didn’t know anyone in this house could be.
As I crunch on some bacon, I watch the storm out the window, white-capped waves barely visible through the sheets of rain, the sky still dark. The last of the leaves are caught in the tumult, and I do some quick calculations. “Halloween was last week, wasn’t it?” I ask as Mary pours me another coffee, both of us pretending we didn’t see her use decaf grounds for it.
“Yes. Pity we don’t get any trick-or-treaters all the way back here. But we always send candy to the gate, just in case.”
My heart aches, remembering the autumn runs with RJ, the crisp air pressing against too warm skin, while I grew ever closer to the quietest of my loves. “I guess that means winter is just around the corner,” I say, an uncontrolled shiver rolling through my body at the thought of snow.
“Chilly this morning?” The hair on the back of my neck raises at the casual question from Trips’ brother, the urge to run away swelling as I tap against my thigh, unable to staycompletely composed. He’s seen me naked. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable. And he liked it.
I take a sip of the coffee, Mary picking up on the tension between me and Trevor. “Clara dear, I had something I wanted to show you,” she says, coming to my rescue, moving across the room.
“Oh, Mary, I’m certain it can wait. I want to get to know my new sister.”
“She’s not your sister. Not yet, at least,” she replies.
I push my stool away from the counter, but Trevor jams his foot behind it to keep it from sliding far, pinning me there. One of his hands grips my shoulder, his thumb digging in, while his other hand rests on my thigh, much too high for a stranger, let alone for his future sister-in-law. “Aww, don’t be like that,” he says, leaning in close enough for his breath to tickle the hair by my ear.
He inches his hand higher, and I snatch his wrist, digging my fingers into the tendons there, his sharp inhale a balm against the edge of control I’ve been riding for the last two weeks. I put on a sweet smile, turning to him, his face a forced mask of ease as he digs his thumb deeper into my shoulder, hoping to get me to let him go.
