“No. We go together. I won’t leave you here with him.”
He didn't speak for a silent second. The room was quiet enough to hear the gravel outside crunching under tires. Thesame noise I heard when Wynter rushed out to the taxi. . . only heavier. A van was parking.
I kept my attention front and center, not daring a look out into the hallway. I kept it on Woodrow, the boy who always managed to steal it.
“I feel distant, Jolie. I feel different. I know it's coming. I know he's coming. And I'd rather you be nowhere near me when he takes over.”
A bustle of noise came from outside. . . meet and greets.
Woodrow’s eyes moved to a clock sitting on the wall. Large and proud, taking up the whole space. Its shiny face, the only piece of white in the dark room. “It’s only three. These people shouldn't be here yet.”
He pulled me to the back door, frustration filling him, as he realized it was locked. His eyes dropped to the lock, but there was no key.
“We could go through the window.” I gazed out through the glass, noting that Ville had moved from his previous position.
“No.” His word was sharp, like the knife on the countertop he was eyeballing. His long lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“There's no time. Don't let on.” His request was a whisper along my skin, the wind bringing it closer as the front door opened again.
Woodrow turned on the tap and placed the kitchen knife—fit for a slasher villain—in my shaking hands, his fingers sealing it in my grip with a gentle caress.
The running tap water was part of the act. A prop to make it appear I was washing the vegetable smell from the blade. But the knife was no prop; it was a weapon, to be used if needed, in self-defense.
“You like cooking?” he asked, drifting away from me to the table. A clever diversion from our true plans, a quick gaze confirming.
“I do,” I answered with a smile. A real smile, tainted by golden memories that even my fears couldn't touch. “I used to cook for my dad a lot. We ate healthy because he was a dancer and I did track. My mother was Cuban, so I used to like incorporating my heritage into the dishes.”
“You were closeto your family.”
“I loved them so much." I hated telling my story knowing Ville's listening ears were moving closer. But I had to play my part, so I continued, “My dad was an amazing person.”
“He sounds like a good father.” Woodrow's sneer came as Ville entered the room, dirty boots soiling the floors even more.
He was the best.I nodded, my nostrils flaring as I struggled with the tears creeping into my eyes.
I could have sworn I heard the words,'Nothing like mine.'But Woodrow was silent when I turned to him. I turned off the tap, but I kept the knife in my hand.
I continued my portrayal of an unsuspecting teenager.
I coated the chopped potatoes in oil. Then I cut up some veggies I found at the back of the refrigerator to accompany them on the tray that would go into the boiling oven I’d preheated.
“I hope none of these people have food allergies,” I voiced fake concerns.
I adjusted the temperature using the oven dials but didn’t pay that much attention to the alteration. My attention was on Woodrow, eyes blinking continuously.
The potatoes would take a while on this heat setting, giving me plenty of time to cook whatever meat I was meant to boil. And to find it.
The refrigerator didn’t grant me options. I stared inside again, as if something would magically pop up, but for the second time, I found only one packet of pork, three days out of date. I inhaled the repugnant scent, wondering if that was what was stinking out the kitchen. . . or at least, adding to whatever stank out the kitchen.
“I don’t know what to cook,” I mumbled, before being distracted by deep voices.
More people flooded through the door, dirty boots on the floor, dirty talk filling the air, getting louder as they neared. Scents of tobacco and dirt—the kind you couldn’t wash away—emanated from their skin as the floorboards screamed of their unwelcome.
I felt Woodrow’s eyes moving over our guests, weighing up the three men standing in front of us, all of whom, were picking at different parts of their skin or clothing.
One man, the least attractive of the three, stepped inside the kitchen, claiming a seat at the table. He plumped himself down at Woodrow’s side and shoulder-bumped him, almost hitting his skinny frame to the floor.
“Hey, kid! How you doing?”
