I glance at her from over my shoulder as I put a pair of pajama bottoms into my bag. “Did she listen to them?”
She nods, her gaze fixed on her suitcase. “She tried to anyway, but it didn’t work out that well for her. Or for me.” She tosses a shirt into her suitcase and clears her throat. “It’s part of the reason why I knew she’d pay for our rental place. I kindof feel bad for holding everything that happened over her head, but at the same time, bad stuff went down because she thought it was a good idea to,” she makes air quotes, “‘try to get me to behave, and be quiet.’”
I recall the story Clara told me about her neighbor hurting her and wonder if that’s what she’s referring to. I start to ask, but the slam of a door in the house cuts me off.
Clara’s head snaps toward me. “Was that inside the house?”
With a frantic nod, I place a finger to my lips. Then I quietly push to my feet, tiptoe over to the doorway, and peer out past the living room toward the bottom of the stairs. My heart is slamming in my chest, the air quiet—too quiet.
Then the stairs creak as someone descends into the basement. I don’t wait to see who it is. I push my bedroom door mostly shut, but not all the way, to avoid making any noise. Then I gesture for Clara to come to me as I flip off the light.
She hurries around the trundle bed as I pad over to my closet. Holding my breath, I ever so gently slide the door open. Inside are boxes, and a few clothes are hanging up, but there’s enough room for both of us to hide inside. I step in, then grab her hand and tug her into the small space with me.
“What’s—” she starts to say, but I cover her mouth with my hand and again, place my finger to my lips before slowly sliding the door shut.
The moment I do, the lights turn on in my bedroom, faint light filtering through vents on the wooden closet door. I lower my hand from Clara’s mouth and smash my lips together, breathing through my nose.
Clara stands still beside me, but I can feel the tremble of her body. My heart is pounding, blood roaring in my eardrums. When I peer through one of the cracks in the vent, my fear only heightens.
Snow crunches underneath my feet…
Footsteps rush after me…
“Oh, Ava,” he calls out.
Trystan is standing in my fucking room. He's wearing a button-down shirt and tan slacks, as if he’s either just come from a fancy event or is about to attend one. Perhaps the dinner my mother told me to attend tonight? Who the hell knows. What I want to know is why he’s in my room?
The sight of him standing in the middle of my belongings, some of which are from my childhood, causes a chill to spread through my body. But beneath the chill, something crisp and raw lies, anger attempting to spark to life underneath the ash that filled my body a long time ago.
Why the hell is he in my room?
I want him out!
I want to fucking scream until my lungs burst. Maybe then all the shards of pain and rage embedded in them will explode out of me and slice through his flesh.
I want to.
God, do I want to.
But instead, I bite down on my tongue with so much force the taste of rust floods my mouth. In tormenting silence, I watch as he walks through my room. He makes a path around the trundle bed, one foot in front of the other, and he’s clutching something in his hand. He’s too far away, so I can’t tell what. He doesn’t touch anything, and carefully steps over each item on the floor, as if being vigilant not to leave a trace of him being here.
He crouches down in front of Clara’s suitcase and uses the object he’s holding to move her clothes around. A glint of silver catches in the light—it’s a knife.
I bite down on my lip as my fear spikes. But I don’t budge—barely breathe. I need to keep it together. It’s something I’m not used to, but at this moment, I know I have to.
Trystan moves Clara’s clothes around for a while before straightening and making his way over to my bag. He does the same thing, moving my clothes around with the knife.
“Where the hell did you put it, you little fucking cunt?” he mutters as he continues to dig through my stuff with the knife. He pauses.
On the end of the knife is a pair of my underwear. He stares at it for longer than he should before setting it inside. Then he begins digging through my bag again until he’s gone through every pocket.
“Dammit,” he mumbles as he stands up and yanks his phone out of his pocket. He dials a number and then puts the phone to his ear. A pause and then. “She doesn’t have it.” He grows quiet for a second. “No, I looked through her stuff. The key isn’t here… Are you sure she’s the one who took it? Maybe you lost it… I know… Well, what the hell do you want me to do about it? If she has it, then it’s with her… I don’t know why you’re stressing about this. It’s Ava. Even if she has the key, what would she do with it? She’s never fought back. We all know this. Plus, she’s moldable…. Get Jason to do it… He’s always been good at controlling her…
He falls silent for a beat, and his gaze strays to the closet.
I stiffen. Can he see me?
“I don’t know why the fucker had to divorce her… It’s not like she would’ve done anything if he said he just cheated on her all the time.” He falls silent again and then turns to leave. “Fine, I’ll keep an eye on her. But talk to Jason too. He might be able to help.” The last part of his words fades away as he exits the room.
