5. Chapter Five—Carlotta
Chapter Five—Carlotta
Sinking into the cushions of my sofa, I chance another glance at my apartment door.
I’ve locked the door, slid along the deadbolt and wedged one of my dining room chairs beneath the handle, and still, I don’t feel safe.
Keying in my code to open up my phone with one hand, I slip the other around the cool handle of the kitchen knife I took from the block, just to feel the heavy weight of it in my palm.
I don’t even know if the thing is sharp enough too…
God. Am I really thinking about potentially using the knife as a weapon if somebody should break into my apartment? I mean, it isn’t an entirely new concept to me. This was the way I was bought up—with weapons and violence. The kill first, think later, kind of attitude.
But I thought I’d left that all behind me.
Not to mention, I was hardly taught correctly. Cristiano was able to sneak me away to the gun range built in the basement of our home, three times before Mother realized what he was doing.
I didn’t even have the chance to learn how to shoot properly.
After that, I was punished and sent to my room without anything but water and a handful of dry crackers, for three days straight. One for each of the three days I’d spent at the range.
I never did understand why Father let her get away with it. Why he, the master of the house, as I’d overheard our maid call him, didn’t override her decision.
When I asked him, days later, my body weak and tired from lack of nutrition, Father simply shrugged, gently smoothing back my hair and promised that Mother was only doing what was best by me, girls didn’t need to know how to defend themselves.
That’s what fathers, brothers, uncles and husbands were for.
At that thought, I tighten my grip on the kitchen knife.
I can save myself, thank you very much.
With my other hand, I begin creating a list, my handwriting a messy scrawl, noting everything the attractive blonde man knew about me.
My name
My place of work
Cristiano.
Beneath that, I jot down the exact date I received the bouquet of dead, black roses and the jewelry box containing my late brother’s finger.
Whoever sent those items knew my address, personally.
That thought, more than any of the others, makes the thin baby hairs at the nape of my neck stand upright.
Connected? I scrawl, circling the word three times.
Tipping my head back, watching the faux crystals in my chandelier shake with the heavy footsteps of my upstairs neighbors, I blow out a breath.
This The Thirteen—whoever they are—want me to take Cristiano’s place, meaning he must have been a member there.
Wherever, there, is…
So, why, if they want me onboard, would they send a piece of my brother’s hand? How did they get it? Did they murder him?
On the other hand, if it wasn’t them who sent me the flowers and the jewelry box, then who the hell was it?
And why? So, they can brag about scaring me?
How did Cristiano die in the first place?
Dropping both the pen and the knife, I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets in an attempt to quell the thumping ache beginning to build beneath my flesh.
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
Peeling myself off the sofa, I pad to the bathroom. Popping two painkillers from their blister packs, I swallow them down with a mouthful of water, before reaching into the shower, turning the temperature to boiling.
Stripping down, I step inside, relishing in the hot water hitting my back, digging into the kinks and knots.
By the time my skin is flushed pink from the heat and I’ve shrugged on a comfy oversized tee, my mind feels a little clearer, the thumping ache behind my eyebrows almost non-existent.
Grabbing my list from the sofa, my knife too, I take them both to bed with me as I slide beneath the covers.
For now, I decide, I need to direct the main center of attention on The Thirteen.
I don’t have a lot of information to go off, but at least it’s more than I can say about the unknown delivery.
Yanking the calling card out of my nightstand, where I’d shoved it for safe keeping, I read through it once more, the pad of my thumb tracing over the swirls and whorls embedded into the thick card.
If this is a joke, then someone’s gone to extreme and expensive measures to make it look as realistic as possible.
With a knot growing in the pit of my stomach, I reach for my phone, keying in my mother’s ID. I’ve had more contact with her in the past month than I have over the span of the entire time since I ran away from home at nineteen.
My thumb hovers over the call button, but I back out at the last second. After the day I’ve had, the last thing I want to hear is her voice. How fucking sad is that?
Instead, I fire out a text message, vehemently ignoring the tremor of my hands.
Carlotta: I thought you were handling all of Cristiano’s affairs?
While I wait for my mother’s reply, I switch apps to Google, typing out ‘The Thirteen’ and hitting search.
Stacks upon stacks of millions of results peer back at me, so I simply click the first one, deciding to start from the very top.
After almost two hours of trawling through the searches, my eyes beginning to burn from staring at the blue-light pixilated screen for so long and my hope dwindling with each click of the back button, I decide to change tact.
I can’t find anything relating to The Thirteen. No photographs or website link. No social media accounts or community written blogposts.
It’s as the group doesn’t even fucking exist.
I double check the name of the meeting place engraved on the calling card, typing in each letter and waiting for the results to appear.
The first link I tap brings me to a…strip club?
Gaze passing from left to right, I speed read the small introductory paragraph surrounded by still images of scantily clad women.
Euphoria sits in the middle of the city, waiting for you to come in and enjoy the ride.
Don’t be scared.
We’ll make it worth your wait, we promise.
With a bar, music, 24/7 dancers, and private rooms to hire and enjoy.
Come and find us…
I scroll down right to the bottom of the page, checking the address matches with the one on the calling card.
It’s just my luck that it matches.
Swallowing dryly, I highlight the contact number, bringing my phone to my ear.
The dial tone echoes the beating of my heart, my palms becoming sweaty with each second that passes by, waiting for somebody to—
“Euphoria, Dallas speaking.”
“Hi.” I lick my dry lips, tongue thick and heavy feeling. “I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for The Thirteen. I—hello?”
The call disconnects with a sharp beep, forcing me to pull the phone away from my ear with a wince.
Maybe it was an accident?
I hit call again, waiting until finally I’m asked to leave a message after the tone.
Not an accident, then, otherwise they would have answered my second call.
This band—The Thirteen—they obviously don’t want to be known outside of their members of their little group.
My phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming text, my stomach plummeting even further than I thought possible when I see who it’s from.
Mother: I am. Because you can’t be trusted. What are you implying, Carlotta?
Even over text message, she has to sink the knife in and twist.
Carlotta: Who are the thirteen?
Mother is typing…
Mother: I have no idea who you’re talking about, Carlotta.
Scoffing to myself, I exit out of our short message thread. I should have known she’d be no help. Not when it comes to me, anyway.
I wonder…
Ignoring the bile rising at the base of my throat, I shove my hand back into my drawer, fingertips pushing past miscellaneous items—hand cream, condoms, spare hair ties, a tube of lip balm—until I brush the trap compartment built into the edge.
Hooking my forefinger into the wood, I pull away the back of the drawer to reveal a second compartment, much smaller than the first.
I fish out one of the only two items inside, replacing the compartment and slamming the drawer shut completely with my elbow.
By the golden glow of the salt lamp beside my bed, I peer down at Cristiano’s phone, turning it in my palm, testing the weight of it, until my face gazes back at me in the reflection.
Of course, the thing hasn’t got any charge.
Unceremoniously, jamming the cable into its port, I wait, heart racing, for the screen to light up.
My heart leaps when the standard lockscreen all touchscreen phones are programmed with, swims into my vision. It’s so impersonal it makes gooseflesh rise on the tops of my arms. But I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s typical of Cristiano; always so practical.
I bet he kept it that way in case it ever fell into the wrong hands…
I wonder what he would say about me holding his phone. Would he think me the wrong set of hands?
Pushing that thought from my mind, I gently swipe the pad of my thumb upwards, revealing the keypad.
Nine digits glare back at me; only six of them correct.
No sooner has my heart leapt, it’s sinking, lying low in the pit of my stomach beside the tangled knot of despair.
Finding a needle in a haystack would probably be easier than guessing the code to my brother’s phone.
But I’ve got to try.
If only for hopes of finding something about The Thirteen or, if I’m extremely lucky, something incriminating which could lead me to the real cause of Cristiano’s death.
Striking up my pen again, I scrawl down the first number combinations that come to mind.
Cristiano’s birthday.
Father’s birthday.
Mother’s birthday.
My birthday.
I try each of them, one by one, holding my breath with every careful tap of my finger against the screen, only to press my lips together tightly when Cristiano’s phone vibrates indicating the wrong password pin.
What else could it be?
After the fifth attempt—a random concoction of numbers—a ten-minute countdown flashes on the screen; punishment for too many incorrect guesses.
“For fucks sake,” I mutter aloud, the sound of my voice bouncing across the four walls of my bedroom.
I curl my fingers around Cristiano’s locked phone, my mind a jumbled mess.
It feels strange to hold something of his in my hand.
Stranger still, to take comfort in it. But in a way, it makes me feel closer to him. A silly thought perhaps, seeing as we weren’t close in the past couple of years.
That doesn’t erase the fact he was still my older brother; once, my best friend and protector. It wasn’t his fault we grew up and were forced to divide. Mine either.
No, we both knew the only person whose fault that lay with—Mother.
Maybe if Cristiano and I had been closer, I would have known the dates that meant something to him, I would have been able to guess his code with ease.
Maybe I wouldn’t even be holding his phone because he’d still be alive, ripping the device from my very hands to key in the code himself with a boyish grin before handing it back to me.
Maybe—
“Stop it, Carlotta. Maybe’s and what-ifs won’t get you anywhere,” I audibly berate myself, hands scrambling in the sea of bedsheets to find the TV remote.
I jab my thumb into the power button, relishing in the comforting sound of a comedy show’s laughter track, so as to shake off the loneliness building inside of me.
I can’t afford to lose focus or allow the tide of grief to pull me back under.
For Cristiano’s sakes, I need to find out who The Thirteen are and how he was involved with them.
From there, I’m hoping I’ll be able to find answers about his death.
After years of protecting me from Mother’s emotional and physical abuse and helping me escape all the years ago… I owe my brother more times over than I can count.