A knock echoes from the front door. Father swears as he storms out of the bedroom.
Nelle breathes through the spike in her pulse. If James has returned, she doesn’t know what Father will do to him, or what he will do to her. She stares at the blank canvas and imagines it splashed with her blood and James’s, black and red swirling together.
Nelle strains to catch every sound as the front door squeaks on rusty hinges.
“Hello, Officer.”
Officer.Nelle freezes.If James called the fucking police, I’ll strangle him.
“How’s your evening, Mr. Quill?” asks an unfamiliar woman. Under her polite tone, Nelle hears suspicion, which means Father hears it, too.
“Oh, it’s all right. Hasn’t been the same since ... well, you know.”
“I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar with what you’re referring to.”
His accent flares up, a sign he is either trying to confuse or charm. “My wife died a few years back. In a house fire.”
Twenty-two years is more than a few.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the officer says. “Do you mind if we talk inside?”
Nelle hears a hard noise and imagines his arm lurching out across the doorway, blocking the officer’s entry.
“Do you have a warrant?” Surprisingly, Father’s voice sounds level. A general question, no hint of nervousness. But the question itself gives the impression he has something to hide.
“No, sir, I don’t,” says the officer.
Please,Nelle thinks, biting her tongue.Come search. Find me.
Though what would she do if they detained him? Only he can write her commands.
He is quiet for a moment, and Nelle can almost see his spiderweb smile curl from one dimpled cheek to the other. His charisma is hissecret weapon. With a few words, a second to warm up, and a laugh, he can snare anyone.
“Come on in,” he says at last. Two sets of footsteps move into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Fresh pot.”
“No, thank you.”
Nelle moves to lurch off the bed, to hide in her closet, but her legs are locked in place. He must have written for her to stay put. Her heart races. How will she explain to the police if they try to move her and she won’t budge?
“I’m already on my third cup,” he says. “Mind if I pop in the toilet?”
“Go ahead,” the officer says.
The floor whimpers under his feet, closer and closer, until he slips into the bathroom across the hall from Nelle’s room. A second later, she eases off her iron bed, springs groaning, and smooths down the quilt before situating the pillows. Making it appear unused.
She goes hazy with anger at her lack of autonomy, her body moving on its own, following the orders he has written for her. Her arms tremble as she pries the window free. She pulls hard, but it is glued shut from years of neglect. The toilet across the hall flushes, and she uses the sound to hide thepopas the glass pane jumps free. She hangs one leg out, then the other, and drops to the dandelions outside. Her feet ring at the impact, nausea filling her stomach. Then she tugs the window nearly shut, leaving a small gap so she can hear inside. She flattens herself against the house, struggling to breathe in the wet-blanket heat. A fly darts around her head and lands on her nose, tickling. She moves to swat it, but her arm is immobile now.
“What room is this?” the officer asks.
They’re in my bedroom.
“This was my daughter Eleanor’s,” Father says. “After the fire, she moved to Scotland with her grandparents.”
Lies, lies, all lies. Nelle can imagine him wistfully stroking the roses papered to the walls, the sparkle of a tear running down his nose.Eleanordiedalongside Bianca in the house fire. Nelle knows it to be true. She has watched Quill mourn her daily for twenty-one years.
The officer says, “She liked to paint?”
Nelle snorts and the fly speeds off. The dust-coated canvases and brushes will only serve to back up his story.
