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I meant what I said. And now I have to figure out how to be worthy of what I just claimed.
11
FAWN
Ilie on top of the covers, still in my clothes, and stare at a ceiling I can’t see. The house is quiet in a way that makes my teeth hurt. No street noise. There’s no sound of Bailey’s breathing coming from the other side of the room. Just the low hum of something mechanical... heat, maybe, or some security system.
I inventory the room like it’s a crime scene. Dresser. Closet with built-in shelves. Window with a view of the manicured lawn and, beyond it, trees.
The door has a lock. I engaged it. Then I disengaged it. Then I engaged it again, my thumb working the metal button until the pad of my finger went numb.
Sleep doesn’t come. Adrenaline has been my fuel for so long that my body forgot how to shut down without it. Every time I close my eyes, I see the parking lot. The van.
I roll off the bed at 3 a.m. and sit on the floor with my back against the dresser. The wood is solid. I can feel it against my shoulder blades. That’s better than the mattress, which felt like sinking.
At some point I doze, my head tipped forward. When I wake, gray light seeps through the curtains, and my left foot is asleep.
I stand too fast, causing pins and needles to shoot up my calf. I wait them out, breathing through my nose, and then I do what I’ve been avoiding since Ryker hung up the phone with his father.
I run.
The hallway is empty. Downstairs, the kitchen is spotless, the kind of clean that looks untouched. No coffee brewing, none of the brothers waiting. I don’t know if that’s better or worse.
The front door is unlocked.
I stare at the handle for a long moment. Then I turn it and step outside.
The air is cold, biting, the kind of November morning that promises winter. I wrap my arms around myself and walk. Gravel crunches under my boots as the driveway curves away from the house. Trees claw upward on either side, bare branches scratching the sky.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. A wall, maybe. A gate with a guard who stops me, confirming what I already decided in the dark, that this is a prison with nice furniture.
The gate is open.
I stop walking and stand there, breathing, looking at the gap in the wrought iron where the driveway meets the road beyond. No guard. No alarm. The road is empty in both directions, but it’s a real road that goes somewhere.
I could keep walking.
The thought hits me, not consumed by Bailey for once. Just me. My feet on gravel. The cold air in my lungs. I could follow the road to town, call a cab, disappear into the kind of life where no one knows my name and no one cares enough to hurt me.
I stand there long enough for my fingers to go numb inside my sleeves.
Then I turn around.
The walk back feels longer. Not because it is, but because I’m choosing it. Every step is a decision, and I hate that I’m making it. I hate that the house looks welcoming from the outside, warm light starting to glow in the kitchen window. I hate that some part of me, some traitorous part I don’t want to acknowledge, is relieved to see it.
Noah is on the porch when I reach the steps.
He’s sitting on the top one, a mug cupped in both hands, steam rising. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t look anything, really. Just watches me come up the driveway with the kind of patience that makes me want to scream.
I stop at the bottom step. “You knew I’d come back.”
“I knew you’d leave first.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “There’s a difference.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I didn’t leave and just walked to the gate, like that distinction means something. But he’s right. I left. I tested the perimeter. I verified I could escape.
And then I chose not to.
“Bailey’s still asleep,” he says. “Kipton’s making breakfast that looks like it could actually be good. Ryker’s... Ryker.” A shrug, like that explains everything. He tilts the mug toward me. “Coffee’s fresh. Or I can show you where we keep the spare keys, if you want to drive instead of walk next time.”
