Chapter 4
Sadie
The water from the showerhead is scalding, a relentless stream beating against my shoulders. The pipes in this old house groan, a high-pitched whine vibrating through the walls every time the well pump kicks on.
I don’t turn the dial down. I stand directly beneath the spray, letting the heat turn my skin an angry, mottled red, scrubbing furiously with a coarse washcloth.
I use the harsh, unscented bar soap Clayton insists on buying in bulk.
It smells like lye and nothing else. I work it into a thick lather, dragging it over my knuckles, my forearms, the back of my neck.
I tilt my head back, letting the water flood my hair, watching the suds swirl down the rusted chrome drain at my feet.
When I finally step out, the small bathroom is a sauna.
Condensation drips down the cracked floral wallpaper and turns the mirror into an opaque sheet of gray.
I wipe a small circle away with the heel of my hand, but the glass fogs over again almost instantly.
I dry off quickly, already knowing I’m running late.
Through the thin drywall, the antique grandfather clock in the hallway ticks, and I glance at it as I rush past.
Six-fifteen. I move to the bedroom. The air conditioning in here is set entirely too low, raising goosebumps on my damp arms. I pull on a clean pair of light wash denim jeans, the fabric tight and unforgiving, and button a neat, pressed floral blouse.
I brush my wet hair flat against my scalp until it hangs heavy and straight around my shoulders.
A woman should be neat and tidy at dinner.
And nauseous, too, apparently.
The floorboards creak under my bare feet as I walk down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. I cross the faded linoleum, the surface scarred with black scuff marks that have been there for decades.
I crouch down and pull the large cast-iron skillet from the bottom cabinet. It’s incredibly heavy, the seasoned black metal slick with baked-on oil. It clanks against the metal rack as I slide it out.
Lifting it with both hands, I set it squarely on the front right burner of the gas stove. I push the dial in and turn it. The igniter clicks rapidly—snap-snap-snap—before a ring of blue fire flares to life with a soft whoosh.
From the refrigerator, I pull a plastic-wrapped package of two thick ribeye steaks. The meat is a deep, rich crimson, marbled with thick, waxy veins of white fat. I unwrap them, the plastic making a sharp tearing sound in the quiet kitchen.
Medium rare. That is the requirement. Not rare, not medium. If the center isn't a precise, warm pink, the plate will be pushed to the floor.
I grab the wooden pepper mill and the small ceramic bowl of coarse sea salt. As I turn toward the pantry to grab the garlic powder, my hip grazes the edge of the doorframe. I stop. My fingertips reach out, almost involuntarily, to brush the smooth, painted wood.
Right there, etched into the white gloss, are faint indentations. The pencil lead has been scrubbed away by bleach and rough sponges months ago, but the physical grooves remain pressed into the wood. Tiny, horizontal scratches stacked one above the other.
Three years. Four years. Five years.
I press the pad of my thumb into the highest groove. The paint is slightly chipped right at the edge of the line. The physical reality of the scratch under my skin sends a sharp, stabbing ache directly into the center of my chest.
There is no line for six years. Just smooth, unmarked wood stretching up toward the ceiling.
And that’s my fault.
A sudden gust of wind rattles the kitchen window, pulling me out of the trance. I pull my hand away from the frame, snatch the garlic powder from the shelf, and pivot back to the stove. The cast iron is smoking now, a thin, gray wisp curling up toward the exhaust hood.
I start potatoes and throw a mixture of veggies in the oven, zoning out until the crunch of gravel echoes through the open window above the sink.
Six-fifty.
The door slamming shut sends a wave of panic through my system.
I pick up the steaks with a pair of metal tongs and lay them carefully onto the screaming-hot iron.
The reaction is instantaneous—a spitting hiss of searing fat and vaporizing moisture.
A thick cloud of savory, peppery smoke billows up, immediately filling the kitchen with the scent of charred beef.
Footsteps approach the porch. I wince with every step of leather boots on wooden planks. The hinges of the mudroom door whine in protest as it swings open.
I hear the distinct clatter of a duty belt unbuckling. The scrape of leather, the rattle of brass snaps, and the thud of a service weapon and radio being set down on the vibrating lid of the washing machine.
“Smells good,” Clayton’s voice travels through the archway. The tone is perfectly level, a smooth, conversational pitch that completely masks the man who peeled out of the dirt driveway hours earlier.
“I just put them on,” I call back over my shoulder, keeping my eyes entirely focused on the searing meat. The edges of the fat are beginning to curl and crisp into a dark, golden brown. “Five minutes max.”
He steps into the kitchen and takes up all the oxygen in the room. He smells heavily of stale, burned coffee and harsh menthol aftershave. He stops about two feet behind my shoulder. The heat radiating off his frame is palpable.
I swallow hard, sucking in a breath and holding it.
“You finish the fence line?”
“Yes,” I say. I grip the tongs tighter, squeezing the metal handles until my knuckles turn white. I flip the first steak. It lands with a sizzle, a perfect crust of black pepper and salt coating the top. “Spliced the wire near the creek.”
“Good.” The floorboards groan as he shifts his weight. He steps away, walking toward the small oak dining table. He pulls out a wooden chair, the legs dragging with a sharp, grating scrape against the linoleum. “I saw Flint sniffing around the old barn when I pulled in.”
My breath catches, freezing in my throat. I stare blankly at the popping grease in the pan. “He was probably chasing a rat,” I say, forcing the words out through tight lips. “I shut the door so he wouldn't tear up the siding trying to dig under it.”
“Dumb fucking dog,” he chuckles. “Worthless. Wouldn’t be too mad if he ended up in a ditch somewhere.”
“Hmm.” I bite the inside of my cheek and reach over, twisting the gas dial until the blue flame shrinks and dies.
I pull two thick ceramic plates from the cabinet.
Using the tongs, I transfer the steaks, potatoes, and vegetables.
The meat is heavy, juices already beginning to pool against the white ceramic.
I carry the plates to the table, setting one down directly in front of him, and slide into the chair opposite his.
Please let this be good enough.
Clayton picks up his steak knife, the serrated steel gleaming under the harsh overhead light. He presses his fork into the center of the meat and draws the blade across it. The knife rasps against the ceramic plate, and I wince. He pulls the slice apart, inspecting the cross-section.
The outer edges are gray and brown, fading into a deep, warm pink in the very center. Drops of red juice bleed out onto the plate.
Thank God.
He places the piece in his mouth. His jaw works slowly. The only sound in the room is the wet, rhythmic sound of his chewing and the ticking of the clock in the hall. He swallows.
“It’s satisfactory,” he hums. His hazel eyes flick up to mine. “You showered well tonight, yes?”
My blood runs cold. “Yes, I did.”
“And your period is complete, correct?”
My stomach flips, bile rising in my throat. “It’s not—”
“You haven’t been using anything. I checked the trash this morning.”
“Yes sir,” I nearly whisper.
“Good.” His eyes drop back to his dinner. “I’d hate for you to try and lie to me, Sadie. That wouldn’t end well for you.”
I nod, and then pick up my own knife. I press it into the meat, the texture feeling like rubber under the blade. I cut a tiny piece, place it on my tongue, and chew.
It tastes like absolute ash.