by Linnea May
I didn’t see at first, and it also went past me the second and third time I checked the right window, the one that’s closer to the bed. But things changed when I pulled over the little upholstered bench that’s placed at the foot of the bed, moving it right below the window frame so I could step on it and have a better look at the boarded frame on top. I’m still not tall enough to reach up all the way to the top of the window, as the ceilings are ridiculously high in the mansion. Yes, mansion. By now, I’m sure I must be inside an old New England mansion, one that was built a long, long time ago, equipped with creaking wooden floors and ceilings that are almost twice as high as those in a regular building nowadays.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it or if it was really there, but it looked like there was a tiny ray of light breaking through the boards up above my head. Close to the upper right corner, not quite at the top of the window yet. I couldn’t be sure because it was too high for me to have a closer look.
But what my eyes can’t reach, my hand can. I stretch up a little more, raising my arm to place my hand where the light appears to break through. And indeed, there’s a tiny spot of light on my palm as I hold it up above my head. Light! From the outside! At least now I can tell whether it’s night or day.
And there’s more than that. It’s not just light but... a gentle breeze. Fresh air. I made sure I wasn’t imagining things, moving my hand back and forth from the particular spot that felt slightly cooler than the surrounding area, before I let myself believe it.
My heart jumps, and I hurry to move the bench closer to the spot, pushing it to the right and closer to the window, before I pile up some cushions on top of it. It’s a struggle to balance them and I have to be very careful once I step on top of the wobbly tower, but I’m happy to realize it actually does lift me a few inches, just enough to feel the breeze on my forehead. I stretch, holding on to the frame while tiptoeing on the pillows. The gentle breeze conjures a smile on my face as I feel it caressing my nose. I inhale deeply, relishing the fresh air that fills my lungs, even though it’s so faint that it’s nothing more than a pinch of spice overall.
A pinch of salt, actually.
I lift myself even higher, my fingers crawling into the wooden frame as I try my best not to fall while I take in the familiar scent. Yes, I’m not imagining it. That little breeze of fresh air visiting me through the crack of the boarded-up window smells like water kissing the shore.
I take another deep breath, closing my eyes as my lungs fill with a taste of fresh air for the first time since I can remember. It’s just a hint, not much more than a suggestion of something I lack. Daylight. A sense of time. Freedom.
Knowledge.
I don’t know how long it’s been since I last saw him, since I curled up in his arms with tears running down my face, my cheeks still emitting heat from the excitement he ignited. I was confused and sad, feeling so utterly helpless against his stubborn silence and the torment that comes with it. It doesn’t really help that his presence provides me with comfort and that his touch is starting to feel more pleasant than intrusive. It’s confusing at best, and it makes me question my own sanity.
Yet I fell asleep in his arms. I want to blame my unbearable exhaustion for it, but only a stupid person would ignore the soothing effect his embrace had on me. I fell asleep because I felt safe in his arms.
And when I woke up, he was gone. He left something behind—a neatly folded white night gown, very similar to the one I was wearing before. This one is unworn and fresh, but it’s even more revealing than the one I was wearing before. I’d left that one on the bathroom floor before my bath, but it’s gone now, forcing me to wear this next-to-nothing piece of fabric as I searched the windows.
I wish I had found this tiny crack before. I wish I had seen it before I decided to take a bath, before he came back into the room to toy with me. Was it light out then? Or dark? Is the sun about to set or about to rise?
I open my eyes, holding up my hand against the faint ray of light, trying to determine the shade of it. Is it cool or warm, closer to white or to orange? My eyes turn into narrow slits as I try to focus on the light, investigating, hoping.
The sound of the door behind my back startles me so much I almost fall off the wobbly pillow tower I’ve built on the bench. I catch my fall in the last second, my fingers crawling into the frame while I use my other arm to whirl around in the air when I try to balance myself.
I freeze for a few seconds, listening after the door snaps shut while I raise my hackles. I can sense the presence of another person in the room, but whoever it is, he or she doesn’t make a sound, apparently standing just as still as I am.
Shit. Am I in trouble?
I hold my breath as my eyes slowly trail back over my shoulder, fear and curiosity merging in a passionate dance when I’m about to find out which one of the two visitors is watching me from the door.
It’s her. The girl with black locks is standing about ten feet away from me, wearing her usual plain black dress and holding a tray with food in both her hands as she always does. The expression on her face is hard to read, as she looks at me through wide eyes and her lips partly opened. She locks me down in a tense stare, not moving an inch as she seems to wait for me to react.
I stumble as I hurry to climb down from the bench, balancing awkwardly as my feet touch the soft ground.
“I’m sorry!” I blurt out, reaping a confused look from her.
She arches an eyebrow, an expression that I’ve never seen on her face. Hope blossoms within my chest, the hope for words, for a conversation, for something to shed more light on the connection she and I might share.
But the expression on her goes right back to that apathetic look I’ve grown familiar with, and once again I’m left with nothing but strained silence as she moves over to the table, diverting her eyes from me and placing the tray on it, right next to the vase with the white rose.
“You have no idea how terrible it is,” I say in a low voice, keeping my distance as I sit down on the bench. “To wake up in a gray basement cell and know nothing about yourself. Your name, your past, your body, your story—to have nothing left and be trapped inside a windowless room with no distractions other than the occasional visitor.”
She pauses, her hands still resting at the sides of the tray as she lowers her head. I know that approaching her will only chase the girl away like a frightened deer, but she has reacted to my words before, albeit in a mysterious and restrained way that only dispersed the puzzle of my existence. If I can get her to listen for a while, it might provoke a little more from her, something a little more profound and telling.
So I stay on the bench, folding my hands in my lap as my eyes rest on her, attentive for any sort of reaction she may show on her face.
“Do you know what he does to me?” I ask. “Do you know how he treats me? Did he do the same to you?”
She still refuses to look at me, but I still catch a much-needed reply.
She’s shaking her head.
“I see,” I utter in response. “So he came up with this specific way of torture just for me, huh. Blinding euphoria and agonizing darkness by keeping me locked away, with no access to answers.”
My lower lip starts trembling as I feel another gush of tears forcing their way out.
I point up to the window behind my back. “Do you know what I did up there? I wasn’t trying to find a way to escape, if that’s what you—or he—are thinking. I was looking for light! For air! For anything from the outside that would at least tell me what time of day it is. Anything! That’s how desperate I am!”
My voice begins to break, and I hate it. I didn’t want to cry, not again. But every time I let myself be confronted with the harsh reality of my situation, I can’t help it. I’m so scared, so hopeless and sad—and she may be the only one who can help me, but she refuses to even talk to me.
“I just want to know,” I go on. “I just want to know who I am, and why I’m here. I want to know why
he’s doing this to me, why he keeps shutting my mind by the way he talks to me, the way he... touches me. It feels good, too good, because it’s so fucking wrong!”
She shutters, turning her back to me as she spins on her heels, scurrying toward the door.
“I can’t take this much longer!” I yell after her, almost shrieking in my despair. “I’m going crazy! I’m going to lose it. You-you just tell him that! This is not going to end w—”
I’m cut off by the door being slammed shut after she has literally fled the room.
Leaving me alone with my tears.
Chapter 33
J
I watch her from afar as she paces up and down, her hand absentmindedly traveling along the fence that secures my yard from the cliff walk right before the house while she presses the phone against her ear. I never liked walking this close along the fence, almost within reach of the many tourists that stroll along the cliff walk when the weather is fine. It was hard enough to get used to their gawking eyes from afar, pointing and staring, often with that hardened look of envy on their faces.
I like to keep my distance, enjoying the view of the ocean while pretending that the little path right between my property and the shore doesn’t exist. It’s easy to pretend from up here, because we’re elevated above the walk, merely allowing for a glance at people’s heads as they walk by. The house is located on a tiny hill, overseeing the cliff walk and much of the surrounding area, in plain sight while still providing privacy.
Malia has been on the phone for quite a while now, after running around like a headless chicken when it first rang.
“Oh my God, it’s him! It’s him!” she kept yelling, holding up her phone while casting me a horrified look.
I told her to answer it and remember what we discussed. She was so nervous, so frightened by the prospect of this call that we had to come up with a script for her, trying to cover every possible scenario that could present itself once we would get that dreaded call from Christopher. She nodded, took a deep breath and finally answered the call. And then she ran out of earshot, distancing herself from me as far as possible while she spoke to the man we have to fear the most—next to Robert.
I shouldn’t be worried, because we have considered every contingency in this regard. There should be no unpleasant surprises, nothing we haven’t prepared for. Everything is happening exactly as I thought it would.
Malia, however, is a weak link in all of this. She always was. She’s the only thing I don’t hold complete control over, and it’s driving me mad. I can’t help but grow tense and agitated as I watch her pace and talk, the look on her face alarmed and strained with focus as she recites her prepared answers.
Or so I hope.
I can’t be sure what she’s actually telling him, and I hate the fact that she decided to run away from me. But I could neither call her back nor follow her. I don’t want to put even more stress on her, or—worst-case—cause her to address me and tell me to stay away as she talks. That would only call unwanted attention to the fact that she’s currently with me, a fact that needn’t be advertised.
Time is moving agonizingly slow, and if you ask me, their conversation has already been too long for comfort. What could they possibly have to talk about this much? What is she telling him? Is she sticking to her script?
Or is this the moment where it all ends, when we were just getting started? Petal has just begun to wake up, to seek comfort in me and to gather the pieces of the person she’s meant to be. She’s still far away from being able to reassemble the few pieces she’s found so far. She still needs time.
We need time.
My pulse hiccups when Malia moves the phone away from her ear, holding the screen up to her face a few seconds before her shoulders sink. A sign of relief. That could be a good thing—or a really bad thing.
She takes a few more seconds to herself, her gaze wandering over to the ocean, facing the horizon that’s dipped in deep orange as the sun sets for the fourth time since all of this started. The breeze that’s sent across the shore is still balmy, but will soon turn uncomfortable as soon as the sun has set. Malia’s black locks dance in the wind while her stiff dress barely moves as she stands with her back to me.
I grow impatient and am just about to move toward her, so she’ll finally fucking tell me how that call went. I need to know, but I’d hate having to show my concern in front of her. She needs to think that we truly don’t have anything to worry about, and she needs to fear me as much as trust in my ability to control the mayhem that Petal’s disappearance has caused.
Just as I make the first step forward to tackle her about the conversation I wasn’t allowed to hear, she turns around, making sure to avoid eye contact as she walks up the hill to the house. It’s quite a long distance and it’s obvious that she’s in no hurry to get to me. She doesn’t dawdle, but her pace is just as slow as those of the strolling tourists outside my property.
Is she trying to infuriate me? I can’t let her have that.
“Tell me.”
My demand is loud and clear, spoken even before she reaches the terrace, but my voice remains firm, showing no audible sign of my nervous strain.
The look she casts me is a mix of annoyance and worry, spiced with a hint of disdain that’s always there when Malia looks at me.
“Well, just as we thought, they started an investigation. She’s been missing for more than three days, and Robert went straight to Christopher after he talked to me,” she says.
I scoff. “Is he leading the investigation, too?”
“Of course he is,” Malia replies, nodding. “He’s all over it, despite the department fighting him on it. He’s personally involved—for him, that’s all the more reason to go after it. For them, it was a reason to try to keep him out of it.”
Nothing she tells me comes as a surprise. Everything is happening just as I anticipated. Good. It will only make things easier for me. No surprises, no unexpected turns and obstacles.
“What about the Bridgewater murderer?” I ask, noticing how Malia jerks away from me as I step closer. “Do they suspect that it could be him?”
She looks up at me, hugging herself, either in response to the wind that’s gotten pretty chilly by now, or to protect herself from me. Either way, I don’t care much for her stance or the worried look on her face, already foreboding a response that puts a damper on everything I thought up until now.
“No,” she says, sounding surprised herself. “Not at all. I even asked him about it, because I thought it’d be so obvious. But he discarded the idea right away.”
She pauses, biting her lower lip as she furrows her eyebrows. “It seems a little odd, doesn’t it?”
I nod in agreement. “Yes, it does.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to believe it?” she wonders out loud. “Christopher always had a thing for her... it might be hard to accept for him to think that she may be... dead.”
Malia lowers her black gaze, unable to hide the sadness that descends upon her with that choice of words. Her best friend may still be alive, but she and I both know that she’ll never be the same. She’s come as close to death as a person can without actually taking her last breath on Earth. It’s a pain that Malia promised to bear—for Petal’s sake.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or he didn’t want to share those details with you. It’s a police investigation, after all.”
She shrugs. “Could be.”
“Will they call you in as a witness?” I want to know.
“Yes, of course,” she responds. “He didn’t say when, but of course they’ll want to talk to me. I was her best friend, after all.”
“You are her best friend, still.”
Malia’s eyes widen, painting shock across her face as she appears to realize what she just said. That little disturbance is quickly replaced by disbelief and concern when she looks up at me. “Yeah, sure.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, pressing her lips into a thin line before
she adds, “You know what else Christopher said?”
I mirror her pose, jutting my chin forward in demand.
“He wants to talk to you, too,” Malia says. “He said he’ll contact you. Soon. Why would he do that at this point?”
“That’s a good question,” I say. “But I’m not worried about it. I’ll be ready for him.”
She sighs, raising an eyebrow at me before she turns to walk back inside the house while I remain outside on the terrace.
Christopher wants to talk to me. Just days after Petal’s disappearance. Malia is right to show a little concern.
Why would he want that? What could I possibly tell him?
Chapter 34
Petal
I know right away that something is different this time when she enters my room.
She looks different. She’s still wearing that same black dress and the same black shoes, but her black locks frame her hair in a wild manner that I haven’t seen on her before. She looks exhausted, her eyes red and her face puffy.
She must have been crying.
A day has passed. I can tell by the disappearance of the ray of light. Right after she brought my food and listened to my pathetic ramblings, I went back up on the bench, stretching, breathing, holding my hand up to the light to slowly watch it changing colors. It turned warmer and softer after a while, barely visible on the palm of my hand, until it disappeared completely.
The sun had set—and I felt tired, astonished at the fact that my body still knew how to tell when it was time to rest. I curled up under the covers, drifting off to sleep long enough to find a new ray of light when I climbed up the bench again after waking up.
The light in my room hasn’t changed much, as it is not affected by the little eyeblink of light that sneaks through the crack in the boards during daytime. My room is always dark, only illuminated by a dim light up above. A light to which I have yet to find a switch. It appears it can only be controlled from outside this room, just like the one down in the basement.
