With my shoes hanging from the tips of my fingers, I smile and say, “A little dirt and water never hurt anyone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Yael allows me to go on alone, but he watches me kick through every puddle on the walk to my front door before he leaves.
The two-bedroom apartment I’ve called home for the last eight months is dark, and the ends of my hair drip water onto the floor as I stumble blindly through the hallway to my room on the left. My bedroom door opens with a crack, unleashing the trapped scent of blown-out candles and sulfur from sparked matches. My anxious heart weighs a thousand pounds inside my chest like it always does when the lights are out.
“Camilla,”the sound of my father’s voice resonates inside my head as I drop my purse to the ground, walking straight to my dresser where most of my candles rest.“What have I told you about eating without permission?”
I was six years old, standing on a plastic step stool in front of the pantry I knew was off-limits. Chewing a stolen saltine cracker as quickly as I could, I shoved a second one into my mouth before I dropped the box in surprise. God doesn’t like little girls who don’t listen to their parents.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”Crumbs escaped from my mouth with an apology.
He stormed into the kitchen, and I threw my arms up to protect my face. He didn’t swat me. My dad pulled me from the stool, away from the pantry. Tears swept silently across my cheeks like the tips of my toes swept across the linoleum floor, a cry for help trapped behind a dry cracker that glued my teeth shut.
“Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you disobeyed me again?”His blue eyes blazed like the hottest part of a fire, and Daddy’s thin, dark blond hair was pushed back, showcasing his sweaty hairline.
It was an ominous expression I’d become acquainted with like a predatory enemy I was in constant fear of. From that day forward, it sank its fangs into my flesh when I was naughty, but it always followed me around and nipped at my ankles to keep me in line.
“Yes, Daddy,”I cried.
At the end of the hallway was a small closet where my mom hung our winter coats with the greasy coveralls Daddy wore to work. I’d swallowed the cracker in my mouth and apologized, crying loud enough to lure my older brothers from their room. They stood behind our father, not daring to interfere—not daring to disobey.
Dad kneeled in front of me, forcing me to face what I feared most: his disappointment.“You’re going to learn, Camilla. You don’t have a choice.”
As I strike the head of the match across the powdered glass pad on the side of the matchbox, fire ignites at my fingertips. The flame reflects off the white walls, and the muted orange glow rescues me from the dark. As the wicks set fire across my dresser, I remember the warning my dad had given me if I didn’t follow the rules.
But at six years old, I didn’t believe him.
Daddy opened the closet door, and the bitter odor of gasoline and motor oil smacked me harder than the reality of what was about to happen. Until he tried to shove me inside. I clung to my dad’s leg, screamed for my brothers’ help, and when my mom finally emerged from her bedroom, I made the mistake of thinking she would intervene. She was my mom. It was her job to protect me.
Mom’s soft brown eyes brimmed with tears, and she clung to her shirt where her heart pounded beneath. I let go of my dad’s leg and reached for her, and Mom’s lips parted to speak. But her words were lost under sudden darkness and the sound of my tiny fists colliding with solid wood.
He’d locked me inside the closet.
“It’s this or damnation.”His voice boomed over my assault on the door.“God help me, the girl is going to learn.”
When every candle is lit, flickering flames burn away bleakness, taking with it the memory of the first day I spent inside the closet. Light fills in the corners, waltzes alongside the tapestry hung above my bed, and tiptoes across my chilled skin until my cheeks redden with warmth. I change out of my wet clothes and climb into bed, waiting for the inevitable.
When my phone finally vibrates with a text message, I hold my breath and pray for mercy.
Because who runs the world?
Lydia Montgomery.
Lydia Montgomery didn’t become the most powerful woman in Grand Haven by being nice to anyone. Her reign over this city was built slowly from years of discipline and hard work. She controls Hush with an iron fist, and I’m no exception to the rule. We may share an apartment, a dog, and coffee in the morning, but I don’t mistake her kindness for weakness.
Meet me at the office.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I read the message over and over, contemplating the tone of the short text until I can’t decide if she ended the sentence with a grammatically correct period or a dead stop. Does the period show off Lydia’s respect for punctuation, or is it a warning?
This wouldn’t be an issue if she ended her text messages with exclamation points or emojis like sane humans, but this is LydiaIf-Looks-Could-KillMontgomery. She says what she means and means what she says. Nothing extra. Nothing left for guesswork. The period is definitely a death threat.
When?
I include a thinking face emoji with my responding text, hoping it’ll eventually rub off on her. My phone rings and her number flashes across the screen, and my heartbeat immediately soars.
“Dammit,” I groan to myself with dread before answering. “Hello?”
“Eight.” Lydia’s tone is as smooth and as calm as an untouched lake in the early morning.
