She nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I grab the stack of flattened boxes from her passenger seat, tucking them under my arm. “Lead the way.”
Her key slides into the lock with a soft click. The sound seems to echo in the stillness around us, like the house itself is holding its breath. When the door swings open, Lila hesitates at the threshold, and I wonder what she’s seeing. The foyer where she once lived, or the battlefield where she fought for her freedom?
“I’m right here,” I tell her, not touching her, just reminding her of my presence.
She steps inside, and I follow, closing the door behind us. The house is unnaturally quiet, that particular silence of a place long unoccupied. Dust covers the surfaces, and the air smells stale, like memories left too long unexamined. Lila stands in the entryway, her gaze fixed on the staircase leading to the second floor. The staircase where Eli tried to kill her.
“I don’t have to go up there,” she says, her voice small.
“You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to,” I agree, setting the boxes down on a side table. “We’re here for your books, nothing else.”
She takes a deep breath, her eyes still on the stairs. “I remember every second of it, you know. The fall. How each step felt hitting my body on the way down. The look on his face when he stood over me.”
I stand beside her, close enough that she can feel my presence but not crowding her. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Lila.”
“I know.” She turns to me finally, a small, sad smile playing at her lips. “It’s not him I’m afraid of. It’s... this.” She gestures around us. “This house. These memories. I was so small here, Anthony. So scared all the time.”
The urge to pull her into my arms is nearly overwhelming, but I hold back. This moment isn’t about me comforting her; it’s about her confronting her past on her own terms.
“You’re not small anymore,” I remind her. “And you’re not scared. You drove yourself here to take back what’s yours. That’s fucking brave.”
Her smile grows a little stronger, a little more genuine. “I guess it is, isn’t it?”
“Damn right it is.”
She squares her shoulders, seemingly coming to a decision. “Okay. Let’s get this done.”
I follow her down a hallway lined with generic artwork that screams “Eli’s taste” all stark lines and cold colors. When she stops at the closed door connected to the livingroom, her hand hovers over the knob for a moment before she pushes it. The door nearly falls off the hinges as it swings open.
The library is nothing like the rest of the house. Where the other rooms we passed were sterile and impersonal, this space feels lived in, loved. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes of every size and color. A large window looks out over the bay, the water glimmering in the distance beyond the dune grass. And in the center of the room sits a massive lavender chair, the size of a twin bed, draped with throw blankets.
“This was where I slept,” Lila says, her voice stronger now. “After things got really bad. I’d barricade the door with that chair and sleep in it, surrounded by my books.”
I stay in the doorway, giving her space to reacquaint herself with this sanctuary and go through her memories one at a time. She moves through the room, trailing her fingers along book spines, adjusting a lamp, picking a blanket up from the floor. Reclaiming her territory.
“I never lived here,” she says suddenly, turning to face me. “Not really. I existed here. I survived here. But I didn’t start living until I left.”
“And now you never have to come back,” I tell her, bringing in the flattened boxes. “Once we get your books, you can close this chapter for good.”
She nods, helping me unfold and assemble the first of the boxes. As we work side by side, I notice the tensiongradually leaving her shoulders, her movements becoming more fluid, less guarded. This room, at least, doesn’t hold the same terrors as the rest of the house.
When the boxes are ready, she stands in the center of the room, hands on her hips, surveying her collection. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Anywhere you want,” I say. “We’ve got all evening.”
Her eyes drift to the lavender chair, and something shifts in her expression. “This chair,” she says, her voice taking on a quality I haven’t heard before, “was the only place in this house where I felt safe.”
I watch as she runs her hand along the plush fabric, her touch almost reverent. “It held me when no one else did.”
“It kept you safe,” I say, understanding the significance of this piece of furniture in a way I hadn’t before. It wasn’t just a chair, but was her refuge. Her protector when I couldn’t be.
She turns to me, her eyes darker now, intent. “I want to make a new memory here. Before we take the books and leave this place behind for good.”
My pulse quickens at her tone. “What kind of memory?”
She sits on the edge of the chair, spreading her legs slightly, her skirt riding up her thighs. “I want you to fuck me here. Hard and rough. Make me forget every bad thing that ever happened in this house.”
