by Ella Fields
Sickened, I shook my head.
When he eventually spoke, his words were soft, decadent, and matter of fact. “There is art in blood, Little Dove. And I’m somewhat of a connoisseur. If I look closely, I can find it in every fine detail of ending one’s life.” He exhaled roughly. “I’m not expecting you to understand. I’m merely trying to explain myself, and …” He paused. “I’m doing a terrible job of it.”
“I’ll say,” I muttered.
“That’s probably because there is no defending it. I’d like to say that I’ve only killed and harmed those who deserve it, but I’m no judge or jury.”
“Merely the executioner,” I said.
He agreed. “Right. Most of my victims, if you’d like to call them that, wind up being that for a reason, though. It’s not simply for sport.”
“What happened to you?” I whispered, hating that I sounded concerned for him. “What made you decide that you’d just wake up one day and kill someone?”
“I don’t always kill them.”
I scoffed. “Because letting them live like Murry is much better?”
He sucked his teeth for a moment, and I wanted to slap myself for admiring the way his cheekbones erupted even more with the action. “Murry has his own story to tell. When or if he’s ready, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
Intrigue mixed with disgust, and at that point, I didn’t know if I was more disgusted with him or myself. For a variety of different reasons, on my part.
“If you won’t tell me how, then at least tell me when you became this person.”
Thomas sighed. “After my parents died.”
I slumped back against the wall and waited for more, but it didn’t come. Then what Milo had said came forward again. “You were digging for information on me and my family. Why?”
He watched me for a pulsating moment, his expression blank. “Did you ever find out what happened the night your mother died?”
My eyes narrowed, heart tightening. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Humor me.”
With a sigh, I lifted my feet to the window seat and stretched the fabric of my nightgown over my bent knees. “My dad said it was an accident, so I never pressed for more details.”
A lone finger rubbed at his brow. “It looked like an accident, yes.”
My hands met, and my arms clenched tight around my legs. “What?”
“I know of your love for stories, Dove. Allow me to tell you one before I leave.”
It wasn’t exactly stated like a question, but still, I nodded even as apprehension coiled around my muscles.
“A couple driving home hit your mother’s car.”
“I know that much.”
“A married couple.” Thomas stood and paced the length of the rug. “They’d been arguing, you see. The husband had been having an affair for well over a year. Nobody knew, except for the misbehaving pair, until one day, a little boy saw them in the woods behind his house, and he was so spooked, his mother almost had to beat what he’d seen out of him.”
“Thomas,” I cut in, my throat drying.
He lifted a finger and continued pacing. “The boy was young, and he didn’t know there would be consequences for telling the truth. But he wouldn’t realize until years later that the events that’d transpired after the affair came to light were not his fault.”
My chest caved, the oxygen in the room becoming too thin.
“The boy’s mother was enraged. Threatened to leave his father if he didn’t end it. So he did. For a time, anyway. A few months later, she discovered them herself, and that was the final straw. By that stage, the boy’s father had decided he wanted out. He wanted this other woman even if it meant he lost half his fortune to his wife. The wife, once she realized she couldn’t win, did everything she could to keep him, but it was in vain.”
Thomas slowed his strides, his tone becoming less factual, more nostalgic. “The father took the wife out for dinner one night, and the boy will never forget how happy his mother looked. Radiant in her shimmering blue dress and red painted lips. Her eyes aglow with hope.”
I didn’t think I could hear anymore. “Stop, please.”
“Almost done.” Thomas went on, “Little did she know, the dinner was a means to get her to sign the divorce papers. He tricked her into signing them, knowing she wouldn’t, by folding and slipping the last page of the papers with the check for dinner.” Thomas laughed, hollow and dry. I didn’t like it. I liked his rust-stained, melodic laugh. His real laugh. “The boy’s father was a fool, gloating over what he’d done to his distraught soon-to-be ex-wife on the drive home. So distraught was she, that when she saw his mistress’s car parked near the entrance to our property, waiting in the dark with the headlights off for my father to produce the good news, she grabbed the wheel at the last second, and ended them all.”
Thomas stopped, his eyes flat and lacking any warmth as he said, “My parents killed your mother, and your mother killed my parents.”
I took in the window, the woods, the walls of the room and their beautiful crown molding, and the furniture.
The boy in the woods.
The castle.
My mind and heart wouldn’t stop skipping. “How old are you?” I asked, needing yet more confirmation when it wasn’t needed at all.
“Twenty-nine.”
He watched with patient eyes as I tried to count backward. “I’m almost twenty-four …”
“I’m not lying to you, little girl.”
My brain stopped computing, my mouth hanging open as I remembered. I remembered him calling me little girl.
Go back, little girl.
“So you were going to kill me and my … my family.”
“I had plans to, yes, though maybe not all of you.” The words were said without a hint of remorse. “And then I met you, and evidently, you went and ruined those plans.”
“But your parents’ death wasn’t our fault,” I whispered.
“No.” He tilted a shoulder. “But it was your mother’s.”
“And your father’s,” I shot back.
When he blinked, my body swayed.
“Knowing your fragile state, I wasn’t going to tell you this just yet, but it kills me. It outright disgusts me that you’ve been spoon-fed lies upon lies.”
“M-my dad …” My words broke, and I shut my eyes, reopening them to find Thomas kneeling in front of me.
“He knew,” he said gently. “He was married to his job at the time, and wanting to keep things normal, wanting to keep her, he turned a blind eye.”
Memories of my mother before she’d died infiltrated, but … “Not once did she seem unhappy,” I said aloud.
Thomas reached for my hand, and too shocked, I let him take it, his thumbs gliding over my skin. His touch was comforting and warm, and I wanted all of him wrapped around me to rid the cold swimming through my bloodstream.
I knocked the want away, about to do the same with his hands, when he spoke. “She was probably very happy. And how were you to think anything was amiss if that was the case?”
He was right, but tears still collected on my lashes, waiting to fall. Reaching up, he brushed a thumb over one set, and licked the wetness from it. “You’re beautiful even when you cry, but I still don’t like it.”
“I …” A ragged inhale shook my chest. “Why? I don’t understand … why.”
With his brows meeting, Thomas stared at me hard for a long moment as my chin and lips shook, then I was in his arms and he was on his ass on the floor. Strong, gentle hands coasted up and down my back as my body convulsed with the force of everything I could no longer contain.
“Hush, Little Dove.” I could’ve imagined it, but I swore every time he repeated those words, his lips brushed over my hair. “Hush, now.”
At that moment, it didn’t matter that he was a monster, or that I felt more lost than I had after being told my mother was never coming home.
All that mattered was that his cinnamon and mint scen
t clouded the cracks in my heart, and his touch steadied my breathing, and his words made me feel safe. As though he’d hold me together, if only I’d let him.
I had no one and nothing else, and so that was what I did.
In a sea of feathered quilts and silken blankets, I dreamed the next day away with eyes wide open, blinking at the wall.
For the first time since I’d arrived at this … castle, I’d slept soundly. Thomas had held me until my eyes decided they were done staying open, then he tucked me in and sat on the end of the bed, silent and still, until I drifted away.
He was gone when I’d awoken, which was no surprise. What was a surprise was that I wasn’t disgusted with myself for allowing him to touch me. For allowing him to comfort me. What I felt was gratitude and that familiar warmth stirring beneath the tangled ropes of fear that’d now loosened and were no longer knots.
Not knowing how to place what I was feeling against what I knew, and what Thomas had told me about our parents, I decided to let it stew.
Growing up, my mother used to say, “Mull it over,” whenever we didn’t understand something or couldn’t decide what to do.
Funny how she never knew that her actions would one day lead us all here.
Did she mull it over?
She would’ve, I concluded, when the sun’s rays changed from golden bronze to dusky orange outside the window. She would have, and still, she’d made up her mind. I chose not to believe she’d leave us. I was unable to match such a callous action with the woman I knew. The woman who was rose-scented soap, cookie dough, wide smiles, and gardening hats.
She might’ve made plans to leave her husband, or maybe in the end, she wouldn’t have, who knew, but either way, she’d never have abandoned us. That much I did know.
And my dad …
The sun had fallen behind the trees before I decided that when I saw him again, because I now knew I would, I wouldn’t say a word. There was no point in dredging up old wounds and reopening them. He’d loved her. He’d ignored her, putting work and other commitments first, but he’d still loved and lost her. He’d already suffered enough.
His resentment toward men who he deemed were failing their women, even in the slightest way, now made a little more sense.
I did plan to tell Hope, knowing she’d never forgive me if I didn’t.
Sitting up, I stretched my stiff limbs and decided it was time to go, and that meant I had to find Thomas.
After showering and dressing in a clean pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt, I ran a brush over the damp strands of my hair. With the company of the ticking clock at my back, I padded down the otherwise silent hall, finding a few toys abandoned in archways and alcoves. Barbies and stuffed animals, mainly.
Curiosity got the better of me when that little girl inside me reared her head, screaming at me to explore. Opening a few doors upstairs, I discovered a sitting room awash in the last glow of daylight, resplendent with an old chaise and matching armchairs and heavy drapes.
The next room was locked, and I knew, if not for it being locked but from its position at the top of the stairs, that it belonged to Thomas.
Before I could open the next door, Lou Lou’s voice traveled up the stairs. “Miss Clayton, come see what I did!”
Such exuberance was almost envious, and I painted on a smile, the steps cool beneath my bare feet as I meandered down them. “You didn’t visit me today.”
Lou Lou swung her leg behind her, leaning on the end of the railing. “Daddy said you were extra tired and sleeping.” Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that boring? Sleeping and lying around all the time?”
Taking her hand, I squeezed gently. “It so is. Come on, show me what you did.”
She dragged me to a small room that was bathed in warm pinks and violet purples. Toys were carefully situated in woven baskets, and there was a long kid-size table dressed in sheets of blank art paper. Orange tin cans were filled with paint brushes, crayons, pencils, and markers. The room itself wasn’t overdone, but a space any child would appreciate losing hours at a time playing in.
He cared for her, that was obvious from the start, but it wasn’t until the moment he’d explained how she came to be here, in a lair filled with would-be horrors, that I saw just how much he loved her.
Lou Lou gazed up at me, her finger pointing at a stick figure drawing on the white marker-colored paper. Her eyes oozed innocence and anticipation as she waited for me to take in her creation and give her feedback.
“Who are they?” I asked, absorbing the tall figure, the tiny one in the middle, and the one wearing a triangle dress on the other side.
Despite knowing already, I waited as she explained, “That’s you, me, and Daddy. That day we played on the playground.” Her voice lowered to a loud hissed whisper, her amber eyes skirting the room as her lips twitched. “We never ever got in trouble.”
Unable to stop it, even if I wanted to, a smile hitched my lips, and I ran my palm over her braid. “I love it. Who did your hair?”
“Murry,” she said with an unmistakable huff of annoyance. “Daddy usually does it, but he was busy this morning.”
“You don’t like it when Murry does your hair?”
Her eyes bounced around the room quickly. “Not really,” she whispered. “It’s always too tight.”
I imagined the sight of either man doing her hair and found that the visual came easily.
A small laugh lifted my chest. “Why don’t you just ask him not to do it so tight?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I guess I could, but Murry, his face …” She chewed her lip, and I waited a beat, then nodded for her to go on. “He was in a real bad car accident, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
It made sense that they’d fabricate that kind of story, but I had to wonder how it’d all play out when she grew up and learned the truth about her father.
Bending low, I whispered, “You won’t hurt his feelings. Not if you tell him why and ask nicely.”
She turned, tiny hands lifting to my own hair. “Your hair is growing longer now.”
I’d started my first year of teaching with it sitting on my shoulders, and now, it sat below my shoulder blades. “So it is.”
Lou Lou ran her fingers through it. “I like it. You still look like Snow White, but even prettier.”
A surge of pure affection flooded my heart. “Is Snow White your favorite?”
“Belle used to be, but now I like Snow White more.”
I grinned. “Belle’s my favorite. We share a love for books.” And beasts, something inside me whispered.
Hearing a throat clearing behind me, I jolted, and Lou Lou giggled. “It’s just Murry.”
Straightening, I pasted on a smile as I turned to see Murry wiping his hands with a towel in the doorway.
He didn’t return it, and I guessed he was still not over me ruining one of his beloved plates. “Time for your bath, Miss Lou.”
“Where’s Daddy?” she asked.
“Busy in the library.” Murry made a hurry it up gesture, and Lou Lou groaned.
“Can Miss Clayton help me instead?”
“Uh,” I hesitated as Murry’s brows rose. “I don’t know—”
Murry grinned then, and I tried not to flinch, to react at all, as the scarred tissue struggled to move with his smile. “If she’d like to, sure. I’ll even let you show her where everything is.”
Without so much as a backward glance, he strode away, and my mouth opened and closed in uncertainty.
“Ready?” Lou Lou stuffed crayons back into the tin.
“Ah, yeah.”
Hand in hand, we left the playroom, our hands swinging thanks to Lou Lou’s enthusiasm as we coasted down the hall. She sniffed the air, a sound of unbridled delight leaving her before she said, “Lasagna. I love lasagna!”
Inhaling the mouthwatering scent, I could see why she was overjoyed.
I followed her back upstairs and down the other end of the hall to where a smaller bathroom sat. A mirr
ored version of the one on the side of the house that I used, but different thanks to the size, little girl products, and toys.
Lou Lou washed herself under my instruction, and I helped her out before wrapping her in a purple towel. As she tugged on the nightgown Murry must’ve laid out, I made sure to empty the toys out of the tub before draining it. Back downstairs, we followed the smell of lasagna to the kitchen, where Murry was setting down platefuls of it at the island.
Lou Lou climbed onto a stool, dragging her plate toward her, then looked over at me. She patted the stool next to her but looking at Murry’s back as he washed something at the sink, I ignored my hunger.
I had to go home, and there was no point making normal with a family that was anything but.
“You eat. I’ve got some things I need to do.”
Lou Lou frowned, rosy lips pouting. “Like what? Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’ll eat later.” With a wave, I started walking backward.
“Will you tuck me in tonight?”
Shit.
I didn’t pause too long, knowing Lou Lou, for as much as she didn’t know, was still perceptive. She wouldn’t understand that my hesitation had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her father.
“Come get me when you’ve brushed your teeth.”
Lou Lou found me at eight o’clock, interrupting the staring match I was having with the woods beyond the window.
Like a foreboding shadow, Thomas appeared in the doorway behind her.
He had his jacket off and was folding the sleeves of his white dress shirt over his tan, smooth arms. Veins bulged and dropped with every roll of the material.
He cleared his throat, and my eyes burned at being caught, darting up to meet his amused ones. “Lou wants to say good night.”
“Nuh-uh,” Lou Lou said, hands on her hips and outrage puckering her lips. “Miss Clayton said she’d tuck me in.”
Thomas looked to be sucking his teeth for a second, then sighed. “Say good night Lou, or there’ll be no bedtime story.”
Lou Lou looked like she was about to cry, and I was finally able to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, where it had been since I got busted ogling Thomas’ arms.
