by Skye Warren
“Oh God. No.”
“Your father suffered a coronary incident this evening. He’s been taken to Tanglewood Hospital. I don’t have the details yet, but our emergency staff is interfacing with the doctors there to make sure he has the best care.”
He’s been standing in front of the door, and as I turn my head, I see something yellow affixed to the thick wood. It pulls me closer, almost as if I’m hypnotized. Mr. Stewart is still talking, something about complications and interventions, but he’s just background noise.
In bold letters the yellow paper says NOTICE OF CRIMINAL FORFEITURE.
“How is that possible?” I whisper.
The house is owned by my trust, which is owned by me. Uncle Landon said it would be safe. From the very beginning, he told me that. Protected from my father’s crimes. The auction would have covered the real estate taxes, the maintenance—except it’s too late.
Somehow I’m too late.
The expression of sympathy on Mr. Stewart’s face is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Worse than the cruel look on Gabriel’s face when he said the words magic cunt. “We received a call yesterday that Mr. James would be required to vacate the premises.”
“Did Daddy know?” My voice cracks. “Did he know we’d lost the house?”
A grim pause. “He knew.”
There’s only one question. “Who?”
Did Uncle Landon find a way to break through the trust, his revenge for choosing the auction over his proposal? It hurts to think about, but maybe that’s not the answer. Maybe it’s much more obvious—and much more painful. Did Gabriel Miller figure out a way to circumvent the trust and take ownership of the house?
I look down at the yellow sheet of paper, already crushed in my fists. I smooth it open as if it’s an ancient scroll, the secrets of lost treasure written on parchment. There’s legalese about vacating the premises—that’s what my mother’s legacy has been reduced to, premises.
And then I see it, the holding company with a corporate address.
Miller Industries.
That’s Gabriel Miller’s company. Which means he now has possession of this house. Did he engineer this entire thing? A ruthless takeover, except this isn’t business. It’s personal. He must have known what I would find when he sent me away.
And he had hired Mr. Stewart. Gabriel might have known about my father’s coronary, too. Had he sent me home as some twisted kindness, knowing my father would need me now?
But I won the game, didn’t I? You lost.
No, Gabriel doesn’t know how to be kind.
I latch on to the only hope I have. “There has to be something we can do. Fight it. Appeal. This is my house. My mother’s house.”
Mr. Stewart shakes his head. “You’ll have to speak to a lawyer.”
A lawyer, like the kind who couldn’t save my father from disgrace. The kind who made sure he paid every cent he owned in restitution and penalties. They won’t help us. “What happens?” I say, desperate now. “You must have seen this before. What happens to the house?”
“It depends,” he says slowly. “But in these cases, where the house is taken to settle payments owed, it will be put up for sale. It will be put up for auction.”
My heart clenches hard. Put up for auction, like my body. Like everything about my life, for sale to the highest bidder. I already sold my virginity, but it didn’t matter. I still lost the house. And my father might die.
Checkmate.
THE KNIGHT
SKYE WARREN
“It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.”
– Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Chapter One
At one in the morning I wake to the sounds of a headboard banging on the wall, vibrations shooting through the hard-edged coils cradling me. It’s my first night at the Rose and Crown Motel in west-side Tanglewood. Moans echo around me like the thin walls are surround-sound speakers, the man’s grunts a bass undercurrent. I curl the thin blanket tight over my shoulder, eyes wide in the dark room.
At three in the morning squeals startle me awake, heart pounding, sweat slick over my skin. I push the blanket down and sit up. The rhythmic movement of the bed feels almost like a violation, as if my neighbors are touching me.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but when I wake up next, I’m curled sideways on the white sheet, arms tucked over my face. The red-numbered alarm clock says it’s been forty-five minutes.
“Yeah…yeah…yeah, baby, like that.”
He’s more talkative now. And he has a slight accent I don’t remember from before.
Because it’s not the same man. Realization washes over me, along with humiliation for being so naive. The woman next door isn’t having sex with her husband on some low-budget road trip through Tanglewood’s inner city. She’s a prostitute. And these men are her customers.
“You do that so good, baby. Don’t stop.”
I give up on sleep, because the situation hits a little close to home.
A chair and table in pale blonde wood sit beneath the air vent. Cool air brushes over my skin, bringing with it the scent of smoke and a tang I can’t place. On the square table sits all my worldly possessions—the drawstring bag I used for laundry in my dorm, stuffed with as many clothes as I could carry that night. Books on ancient mythology from the semester I dropped out. There’s no point in keeping them, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave them behind.
A small pile of money. Not enough for my father’s medicine, not nearly enough to save our house. But it will pay for this motel room for a few weeks. Food, too, if I’m careful.
“Now turn around,” the man next door says, voice uneven. “I want to see that nice big ass I’m paying for. Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. I fuckin’ love it.”
Shivers run over my skin that have nothing to do with the air vent above me. I think about the woman he’s with, my faceless neighbor. What’s she thinking right now? What’s she feeling? Shame. Guilt. Relief. Or maybe she’s smart enough to numb herself with alcohol, not feeling anything at all.
In some ways it’s been easy to focus on survival since I lost my house. Where to sleep, what to eat. How to wash my clothes in the laundromat, with sticky quarters and little packets of powder from the vending machine. Easy, because survival is something I might actually accomplish. And I’ve failed so much. My father. And worse than that, my mother. Myself.
“Don’t fight me. I want to get in that ass. It’s too fucking tight. I need it.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. God.
Is she scared? Resigned? Does she know I can hear them? Does she care?
I can’t listen to any more.
The surfaces in the bathroom glisten with something that isn’t cleaning chemicals. There’s black residue climbing out of the cracks, as if the place is drawn with thick markers. It’s disgusting, but at least I can turn on the water. The spray hits the scraped ceramic tub with a satisfying thud, almost drowning out the sound of sex next door. Still wearing my cami and shorts for sleep, I curl up on the lid of the toilet, knees tucked underneath my chin, a faint mist from the shower coating my face.
In the steady fall of water it isn’t my neighbor’s debasement I hear. It’s mine.
Chapter Two
Once upon a time I lived in a castle. I would have defended it with my life. That wasn’t what Gabriel Miller wanted from me. He wanted my innocence.
I gave it to him, but it wasn’t enough.
Now I’m determined to get back my family’s home.
Sunlight enters the motel room through a vertical slat between heavy curtains, splitting the room into two halves. An unmade bed on one side, a nightstand with a dusty Bible. The table and chair on the other side, with the haphazard pile of clothes and books, artifacts from a former life. A rectangle of light hits the mirror, and I use the reflection to brush my teeth and comb my hair into something half-respectable. Where I’m going there are tailored suits and
high-end manicures. I’ve got a Smith College T-shirt and my favorite pair of jeans, thin armor in the fight of my life.
I shove all my cash into my back pocket, wrapped around my room key, unwilling to leave it behind for even a few hours. I doubt there’s daily housekeeping at the Rose and Crown, and if there were, they might not steal, but I can’t take any chances. My worldview has narrowed from tuition payments and charity auctions to the price of a hot dog at the corner store.
Opening the door, bright light blinds me.
I stumble over a large warm body blocking my path.
“Oh my God,” I say, startled, my hands on the coarse asphalt. “I’m so sorry.”
Only in the seconds following do I realize how strange it is for a man to be lying outside my door. Two decades of society manners have taught me to apologize first, ask questions later. The large figure lumbers to his feet, and I take a step back, eyes widening.
I get the impression of pale bristle and dark blue eyes. He’s wearing too many layers to get a clear read on his figure, but he’s tall and wide. A threat, in other words. I need to stop apologizing and start protecting myself.
“I don’t have any money,” I lie, half prepared to take off running. My door is still open, blocked by his body, but I’ll abandon my clothes and books if I have to.
He frowns at me, a merging of bushy brows. “Don’t want your fuckin’ money.”
It’s something of a relief to realize he isn’t the talkative customer from last night, but for all I know he could be one of the other men. Or he could be someone who didn’t have enough money, someone who wants to take what he can’t pay for.
I move back another step. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Though really, who wants trouble?
The man seems to grow larger without moving, a subtle shake of his large frame. I have the impression of a dog facing an encroacher, the fur on his back raised in threat. “Did I fuckin’ touch you?”
The words are both an appeasement and a threat, pointing out that he hasn’t hurt me even while growling the words. He may not have hurt me, but he’s a strong man in a scary parking lot with a lone girl. The threat doesn’t need to be spoken to be real.
“No,” I say, drawing strength from somewhere inside. “But you’re blocking the path to my room.”
He looks back through the open door, taking inventory of the unmade bed, the piled table. What does he see? Something to take? A dark place he can hurt me? His examination is too thorough to be completely harmless. And when he looks back at me, his eyes are shrewd. “How much?”
Shame rises like acid in my throat. He thinks I’m like the girl next door, the one with a new customer every hour. “More than you can afford,” I say, which would feel better if it weren’t true.
His laugh sounds rusty but authentic, as if it took him by surprise. “I bet you’re fuckin’ right.”
He takes a step sideways with an elaborate sweep of his arm, a mocking invitation to shut my door.
It feels like a trap. Isn’t this something a predator would do? As soon as I’m close to the door, he’ll push me inside. He’ll force me to do things, and after the soundtrack to last night, I know no one would help me if I scream.
But when you’re down to two pairs of jeans, losing one is a big deal. I take a step closer, eyeing him the way I’d watch a snake on a hiking trail. There’s a hard edge in his eyes, like he’s seen death. Like he expects to see it again. I’m leaning away from him as I approach my door, ready to fight if he comes at me.
Instead he watches me, arms folded over his massive chest. It’s not an attack, but he’s not leaving me in peace either. His gaze feels intent, more serious than the wandering interest of a random homeless person.
I manage to shut the door. The heavy lock clicks into place.
This time when I look at him, it’s with wry gratitude. I still don’t trust the man, but there’s an intimacy to his intrusion to my morning peace, a coded message in the way he stands and watches.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyes narrow as if he’s suspicious of me. Which is funny, considering. “What’s it to you?”
It shouldn’t matter. “I’m Avery,” I offer anyway.
His silence answers me, cold and unapologetic. I have a fortress I need to storm, so I start walking away.
“Will,” he says behind me.
I pause only a moment, a hesitation in my step. A soft acknowledgment of a gift rarely given. I wouldn’t call Will a friend, but I need every ally I can get. In this city I already have too many enemies.
Chapter Three
The uneven sidewalks lead me to the bus stop. The city’s metro hisses and jolts its way through downtown until I arrive at the iron gates of a stately nursing home.
Inside, the floors are white marble with flecks of some silvery substance, glittering beneath the thrall of chandeliers. It’s a luxurious space, far greater than anything I can afford.
“He had some agitation last night,” the nurse says, voice soft with sympathy. “The doctor gave him medication to help him sleep. He’s liable to be groggy if he wakes up soon.”
“That’s okay.” I force a smile. “I’ll just sit with him.”
The truth is that he hasn’t woken up in the three days since his heart attack. Not when I’ve been visiting him. I’m ashamed that it’s been a relief. At least asleep, I know he’s resting, peaceful in the knowledge that our house still belongs to me. The knowledge that his daughter hasn’t auctioned her virginity. What will I tell him once he’s fully conscious?
How will I explain this?
The room is dimly lit by sconces, yellow light making wood-paneled walls glow. The bed is larger than a regular hospital bed, with heavy-duty plastic rails. An antique-styled cabinet hides most of the equipment that beeps and whirs, keeping my father comfortable.
“Hi, Daddy.”
He looks infinitely old against the white sheets, the skin of his hand paper-thin, inlaid with purple veins. The scars left from his attack stand out in bright relief. The sight sends a shiver through me. The enemies who attacked him are still out there. The man sneaking around the yard when we were alone in the house, too.
Some days I feel paranoid, as if our fall from grace changed me, made me a darker person. But when I look at my father, frail and broken, I know my fear is justified. Someone out there wanted him hurt. Maybe dead. Will they try again?
Not while he’s here. The security at this place is as good as the food and the accommodations. The very best. The book I left here still sits on the nightstand. Dangerous Women throughout History. A textbook too old and worn to have much resale value. That was my excuse for keeping it, anyway. Or maybe I needed this reminder that women had been powerful despite systems designed to stop them, that we aren’t always pawns in the games of men.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read aloud.
“‘The face that launched a thousand ships has inspired just as many stories of what exactly happened between Helen and Paris, and how it drove Troy to war. Was it her beauty that drove men to madness? Was she a figurehead for a war rooted in economic disparity? Or is there more to her story, something beneath the surface?’”
I don’t know whether he can hear me, but it’s worth it to try.
And reading about Helen of Troy always brings me closer to my mother. My father used to call her that and the name fits. A beautiful woman, wife of a king. She didn’t start a war—at least not that I know of. But she’s the mysterious figure in my past, an enigma I can only puzzle together from stories my father told me, the same way that Helen must be sketched from countless interpretations and mentions in historical canon.
“‘Helen’s position in history poses deeper questions. How does she represent the ideal of beauty? And to what degree does female agency direct the course of history?’”
A murmur comes from the bed, and I glance up. Daddy’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a crease between his brows. I touc
h his hand and find it freezing. Squeezing gently, I put my other hand on his forehead.
“Daddy?”
No answer.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re probably bored. I can just imagine you smiling at me, telling me that I need to stop reading where it’s dark, that I’ll ruin my eyes that way.”
More indistinct sounds, an agitated mutter. His lips move briefly and then fall still. Is he trying to talk to me? Is he awake or dreaming?
“Can you hear me, Daddy? I’m right here.”
“Helen,” he says, voice rough and thin.
“That’s right,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. But I know from the tone that he hasn’t heard me. At least not with any conscious thought. He’s not awake, but filtering through some medicinal haze. And the yearning in his voice isn’t meant for a historical figure. It’s for my mother. Helen James.
“Ms. James,” a voice says from behind me, and I whirl with a gasp.
Past and present collide for one breathless second, before I can right myself. It takes a second for the world to come into focus, for me to recognize the administrator for the nursing home.
“Mr. Stewart,” I say, still emotional. “It’s good to see you.”
His expression is grave. “I’m sorry that your father’s condition isn’t better, but the doctor is optimistic about him. Despite his age and his injuries, his vitals are strong.”
I close my eyes briefly, torn between a prayer of thanks and a plea for the future. “Thank you.”
“Of course he will be at an increased risk of another heart attack, or even a stroke, with his current situation. There’s a new drug on the market, an advanced antiplatelet, that can help him. The doctor can explain more details.”
A new drug? That sounds expensive. And we don’t have insurance.
