I rearranged some pans on the stove, the naked flame rusting the bad paint. They didn’t look like the kind of cookware you’d bring out for guests, but during her dictation, Wynter had assured me these were the ones. The garnet color camouflaged what I could only assume was old food, unwashed from whenever they were used last.
I didn’t have any idea what had gone on outside while I learned the kitchen rules.
Woodrow hadn’t told me; he hadn’t even come inside yet.
And Ville hadn't come inside, either. I could see him through the window, standing with his back to me, in the longer strands of grass, phone pressed to his big ear and a billow of smoke around him from the cigar in his mouth.
I hated him, as much as the stench of this kitchen. . . and the sight of it. I hated this whole house. Dark and depressing, like my thoughts over tonight.
I collected some herbs from the pantry. Rosemary, sage, garlic salt—all of which were jarred and not fresh, clumped together at the bottom of the jars, thanks to the dank air that lived within these walls. But I had to make do with what I had, and I thought they might bring out the best flavors of the surprise dish. I still hadn’t been told what meat I was cooking, and in other circumstances, I'd have been excited to take the reins for a while. . . but my circumstances were grim, and the refrigerator was almost empty.
Gazing over the shelves to the house’s sweat dripping down the back wall, I relived old memories. . . cooking back home, making hearty and healthy meals for my dad and me.
Ah, I miss him so much.
My heart began to ache as I stepped from the pantry, closing the door with my foot. “Please, guide me through this,” I asked him.
I sighed, and gave one of the jars a shake to loosen the contents molded together.
The autumn heat slipped inside the house as a door opened.
Woodrow’s feet dragged him into the room. I looked him over, noticing he was wearing muddy shoes on the floor I’d already polished around thirty minutes ago. Another order from Wynter.
He didn’t speak. His chest rose and fell, straining under his loose t-shirt. His jeans were stinking from the knee down. I didn’t comment on the mess he trailed in, my thoughts cut off by his words.
“You gotta go,” was all he said.
I placed the herbs on the work surface, the little jars clunking against the granite.
“What is it?” I asked, apron off and ready for flight.
Woodrow didn’t look at me. He didn’t answer, but the tears rolling down his flushed cheeks told a story. A tale I'd already read. A very sad story of loss and heartache.
“He found her?” I asked, my legs rushing to him, my hands rushing to his face, dropping to his throat a second later. “Did he do this? Hurt you like this, again?”
He only answered my first question. “He found her.” His big hands covered his face, eclipsing mine. Hiding the pain. The hate. “God, he found her.”
“Is she. . .?” I wondered, examining the deep shades of purple on his face and neck.
“She's gone.” His hands were down now, shaking fingers in mine. “She's gone. And she fucking suffered. I fucking hate him!” Woodrow seethed, and the anger on his face told me that he wished his father dead. The sympathy afterwards told me he was sorry. . . because I wished for my father to live.
But Woodrow didn't have to apologize to me.
I wished the same for Ville.
“I need you to run. He's evil. Pure evil. I know he’ll hurt you. I just know it.”
“You can't run. We’ll get caught!”
“I'm not coming.”
“No way.” I shook my head, stepping back, our hands falling apart. “Together. We said together.”
“You can get help.”
“We said together,” I repeated with grounding firmness. I wouldn’t budge on this. I wouldn’t leave him behind with a man who would put those kinds of injuries on him, knowing that the area he was causing pain, was already traumatized.
“Okay. Together,” he reluctantly agreed. “But if I can't keep up, leave me behind. Wait for me at the road. . . and if I don't come, keep going.”
