Page 117 of Sinister

I run directly into the pebbling curtain of water that covers everything in sight.

35

PETRA

Does the chauffeur know what just happened? I wonder when the voluptuous violin opening of a Madonna song fills up the car on my way back home. But if he has any inkling of the mess I am in, Ron doesn’t show it as he expertly maneuvers the car through the stormy streets.

“Tsk, tsk, you should have just called me,” he had said in a doleful tone when I slid into the backseat and implored him to start driving. “I’ve got an umbrella and everything.”

“Do you want to stop by a pharmacy, Miss Valentine?” he says presently, while I stare out of the window, glassy-eyed, and occasionally sniffle into my sleeve. “We can pick up something quick if you’re catching a cold.”

“No thanks, I just want to go home, get into the bathtub, and never come out.” I sigh and set my head back, trying to settle my wobbling nerves and queasy stomach. In a couple more minutes, I am dropped home with a, “I’ll check up on you later, Miss!” from good ol’ Ron, who drives away without waiting for a response.

My clothes seem plastered to my skin as I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking from the cold and the remnants of adrenaline.

When I push open the door, there’s a familiar quiet draped over everything: the antique pottery huddled over at one corner of the entryway, the plush carpets smothering my lonesome footsteps, the stately piano in the foyer that nobody has the time or inclination to play.

Presently, Mom and Dad are away at some conference in Austin, so here I am again, solitary specter of La Maison Valentine.

I kick off my wet shoes and quickly discard my drenched clothes in a soggy heap by the door.

I have only one goal in mind: a bath in scalding hot water, the hottest water my skin can tolerate before melting, while the Nouvelle Vague album plays in the background.

So I put on the record on the sleek electric vinyl player my parents have set up in my room and make my way to the bathroom. Soon, the soothing strains of the band’s song float into the air, and as I wait for the tub to fill with steaming water, I croon along, singing.

The stringed melody casts a soporific spell over my tired body. I take off my plush bathrobe and step into the sudsy water.

The warmth is a stark contrast to the chill that has settled into my bones, and as I sink into the tub, a shuddering breath escapes my lips.

The water’s warmth eases the tension in my muscles, and I gently massage my knees and hips to alleviate some of that perpetual discomfort into which the you-know-who’s mass has plunged me.

At the same time, I close my eyes, trying to drown out the heated memories of Sin’s hands on my skin, grasping at the same curves that I’m currently massaging. A blush blooms over my face at the steamy recollection.

But I’m far too comfortable in the bathtub to get up immediately.

After what feels like an eternity, the water has become cooler, and I force myself to rise and put on my bathrobe. The record has run out by now, and the house is eerily quiet as I slip into my Gucci loafers and walk to the kitchen.

Rain sputters against the taut glass windows of the living room while I rummage around in the fridge and the cupboards.

Of late, my cravings have gotten particularly esoteric: first there was the experiment of strawberry dipped in melted queso cheese, then there was the adventure of chili lime chips dipped in salted caramel sauce. So I have to look around for a few minutes before an acceptable meal can be plated up.

The cook my parents employ is nobody remarkable, and salads, soups, layered pastas, noodles, and a few choice desserts are all he can reliably stock in the fridge.

In the past, this limited repertoire of dishes was quite acceptable to me because I could just order out if I wanted something more specific.

But none of that seems especially palatable at the moment. My stomach turns at the sight of most meat these days, and the changes in taste because of my you-know-what condition (the teachers didn’t tell us about that part in Biology class!) make it hard to stick to a set menu day in and day out.

The staff might gossip if I suddenly start demanding something totally new, so I have stuck to repurposing the meals prepared by the cook.

Today, I find a small casserole of mac and cheese, which I garnish with some fragrant organic kimchi from a jar and a balsamic onion relish that I have just whipped up.

The piquant, tangy notes would pair well with the creamy pasta, I have decided. And in case my carb cravings are still unsatisfied later on, I can always heat up some garlic bread.

Just as I finish putting the plate together, something catches my attention—a faint sound from the living room. It’s subtle at first, barely discernible over the storm’s relentless drone and crackle.

I stand still for several seconds, and the spoon between my fingers rattles loudly against the delicate bone China laid out over the counter.

“Who . . . ?” I barely manage to whisper into the silence.