The next morning, I woke to find Woodrow missing. The chair was moved from the door, and the t-shirt Bonny had slept upon and gnawed at, was no longer acting as her bed, indicating that he'd taken her back to the hutch.
A note sat upon his single bedside table, reading:
Jolie,
You've probably guessed where I am. . . I'll be backsoon.
I'd have asked you to come, but you looked so beautiful asleep.
The words, written on a torn-off chunk of paper from his diary, were in Woodrow's handwriting.
I took the message with me, savoring the compliment as I moved down the hall, dressed only in a long tee, to change clothes.
My summer dress—another with a floral design—skirted my hips, caressing the briefs I'd already put on, when Wynter's voice called me from down the hallway.
I hadn't seen her in days, and as crazy as it sounded, as she was still in this house, I missed her. . . assuming she was the woman I thought she was.
Doubt was creeping in.
She’d been absent, hurting Nessie in the process—something, the woman I knew, would never do.
I met Woodrow in the hallway, his breath still trying to catch up from the long walk. His gaze met me from down the corridor, floppy fringe dropping into his eyes as he slowly blinked once, encouraging me to pretend I was on a run.
I shrugged my shoulders, confusion on my face. I didn't know her well enough to know the different tones of her voice. But something about her pitch—the coldness of it—had Woodrow erupting in goosebumps.
“Jolie!” my name rattled the walls of the house, surely waking Nessie who was still asleep.
I moved closer to the master bedroom, ignoring Woodrow’s suggestion.
The door was open, so I didn’t knock.
I looked inside the room, having never been in this space before. Green and gloom decorated the vast interior. The sunlight from the balcony doors would have brightened it up, had it not been drowned out by the darkest drapes. Dust clung to everything, even my feet as I shifted over the threshold.
Ville was laying on the bed, blankets pushed down his sweaty skin to reveal his chubby body and his stumpy dick buried amongst his excess skin.
I didn’t know where to look.
My thighs rubbed together as I shifted backward into the doorframe.
“You getting a good eyeful there, honey?” he snorted, like the pig he was.
I hadn’t made peace with Ville; I never would. He was nothing like Woodrow, who had a reason for his behavior. He was just evil.
I couldn’t understand how a man could sit back and relax, watching while his son sexually abused a teenage girl. It was wrong. He was wrong.
My stomach instantly churned at the sight of him, making me feel queasy.
“Please, tell me you’re not eyeballing my husband’s cock, Jolie.” Wynter appeared in the doorway of a private shower room, hobbling with a limp. Her blunt words startled me, taking away any sensible response.
Her stare met mine as my head reeled towards her. She was in the process of doing her makeup, holding an eyelash curler, thick with old mascara, to her eyes.
My mouth fell, my answer still in hiding, but my body tried to make up for it. My head shook violently, until I had to stop over the fear of a seizure.
“Good. Because that would make me very uncomfortable. Surely, you have enough to deal with, messing around with my son.”
Did that mean she knew?
Did she know everything? Did she think what happened was okay? Or, had she just heard us last night?
