Page 15 of Enzo
I tucked the wipes into my waistband and made my way downstairs again, one slow descent on my ass made difficult by carrying the huge-ass knife. Still, if I fell on it, then no one could hurt me anymore.
Stop.
Jamie had gone from his place at the top of the stairs, but Enzo was at the bottom. Pretending to work. Not watching. Not speaking.
But when I reached the bottom and we locked eyes, he gave me a single nod.
I didn’t know what it meant. But I nodded back.
Then I shut the door behind me. Back in my room. Back in my air. Knife beside me. Heart still racing.
There were piles of paperwork in the corner of the room, and three big filing cabinets that looked as if they hadn’t been organized since the dawn of time. I couldn’t help myself—I investigated. Orders for parts, flyers, quotes, invoices. So much mess, paper everywhere, some yellowed with age, others printed fresh. It was chaos.
I picked through a stack, letting my fingers run over the top sheet. There was an invoice for a crankshaft sensor—whatever that was—and after a few minutes of flipping through nearby papers, I found a matching quote for the same part. I lined them up, matching numbers, dates, and set them aside together, separate from the disarray. One small thing that made sense. One puzzle solved. Just a little order in the noise. There was a pile of receipts for accounts, but I couldn’t find one matching a payment to the quote and the part order. Maybe they didn’t keep all their paperwork in here? Or perhaps the amount was outstanding?
The meds made everything molasses-slow. I shoved the chair up and under the handle of the door—just in case—not caring if I died in here and people couldn’t get in to retrieve my body. Maybe this could be a cool place to decay?
I curled up on my bed, pulling a blanket over me, pain sliding away, and all I could do was wonder what a crankshaft sensor was.
I woke in pain. Sweating. Cramping. The nightmare ripping the air from my lungs, locking every muscle tight. I heaved. Chest jerking. I rolled to my side. Nothing.
Empty.
Sick, but hollow. The kind of pain you can’t throw up.
I curled in on myself. Smaller. Tighter. Breath catching on a sob I didn’t remember starting.
And then—tears.
Somewhere in the gasps, I realized I was crying.
Then came the knock.
“Robbie?”
Enzo.
His voice was muffled but urgent. “Open the door, Robbie.”
He was trying the handle now. My name again, firmer this time. “Are you okay? I heard you scream. Robbie!”
I wanted to tell him to go away. I wanted to scream no. But something inside me broke open. He needed to see me. And fuck, I needed to see another human. Someone real.
“I’m okay,” I croaked, dragging myself to the door. “I’m coming.”
The chair was jammed under the handle, and I couldn’t get it free. My hands shook too badly, my body trembling with the leftover horror of whatever the nightmare had been. Tears stung hot and fast, not fear, but frustration at how goddamn weak I was.
“Come on,” I snapped at the chair, yanking it. It scraped, my whole arm screaming, but finally, it gave. I stumbled back, grabbed the knife, and cracked the door open an inch.
Enzo was way back from the door, hands visible, posture loose and unthreatening.
“I’m okay,” I said again, quieter now. “It was a nightmare.”
His eyes softened a fraction. Not sad with pity or wide with anger. Just…something steady I couldn’t understand, something like compassion.
“Can I do anything to help you?” he said, unmoving. “I want to help.”
I tugged in the new tray. There was more soup with aVon the top, which I assumed meant it was vegetable, a new note I would read later, more crackers, more water, and a banana chopped into tiny pieces that had started to turn brown at the edges. I love bananas, so soft and squishy, so sweet.Fuck, I hope I can keep it down.
