9. The Faster the Rise the Harder the Fall #2
I started moving around his room, touching things like I did in clothing stores.
His room was dark, but the lights from the house’s exterior were bright enough with the window open that I could make things out.
His single sheet was old, worn thin. The surfaces of most everything were dusty.
That same inexplicable inventory. Cosmetics that were basically pyramid schemes, the fidget spinners that were all the rage when we were children, melatonin gummies, granola bars, gardening tools, boxes of what looked like multiples of the same small motor.
I assumed nobody came up here to clean, either from a place of indifference or because they took one look and got overwhelmed.
Even I felt a sense of lethargy that nearly subsumed my curiosity.
Nearly.
I bent down to look at the box of broken tiles. “Where was all this going to go?”
Jude said nothing.
“This looks like blood,” I said, and flicked a glance up. He wore jeans again, though it was still sweltering outside. I didn’t see a bandage, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
I remembered, then: He needs a friend.
“Is all of this for attention?” I straightened, playing the contrarian female character, the dream girl who kept the story tightly wound around his feelings, his needs.
I had played every version of docility imaginable by then.
For the money, and for the chance at a career-making part, I could certainly do it again now.
“A new environment must make things hard. And your dad must be really busy.” In my head, I thought: You’re a grown man, lots of people live with disabilities, if you’re bored get a job.
Jude’s voice darkened. “Yes. He’s … busy.”
“Well, I’m not.” I sat on Jude’s bed then, gesturing for him to sit beside me.
Aware how this could play out, but choosing to imagine it as a scene from a raunchy screwball comedy.
He’d strike out and say aw, man, something-something bitches and friend zones.
“So,” I ventured, “what do you do for fun?”
He frowned at me. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” I patted the spot beside me again. “Look, there’s no reason we can’t get along. I’m here to be your friend.”
“Stop.” It wasn’t said in irritation. Purely factual.
“Stop what?”
“Are you sleeping with him? That guy who works for Ara.” Jude motioned vaguely out the window.
He couldn’t have seen the courtyard clearly from here. I was pretty confident I hadn’t talked to Teddy on this side of the house, so the only way he could have known was … what, via stalking, perhaps?
In lieu of allowing myself to find this information creepy—a logical response that felt tired and overdone—I said, “What guy?”
Jude crossed his arms.
“I don’t think it matters who I’m sleeping with,” I pointed out. “That’s my business.”
“Don’t friends share that sort of business?” His voice had a sardonic edge to it, like mine did whenever I was arguing with my mother.
Two could play that game. “Fine. Yes, I’m sleeping with Teddy.” I rose to my feet to join Jude at the window again, if only to doubly confirm there was no way he could have seen me talking to Teddy earlier. This time, the tones of argument beneath us were hushed.
“He works for your dad,” I said. “His mom is a director. He’s not bad looking and he’s nice.
All the usual reasons to sleep with a person.
” I turned to him, suddenly overcome by a desire to see how far I could push, and what might give way.
“Is that enough friendly information, or do you want more?”
“You should leave.” Jude was still looking down, peering intently into the darkened recesses beside the villa. I wasn’t even confident he was talking to me. “They’re just going to promise you things and not deliver.”
“Who, your—?” Family didn’t seem the right word. “Either way, it’s still worth a try.”
“No. It isn’t.” His gaze slid briefly to mine, a puzzling look of frustration on his face. “Don’t you understand? It’s dangerous. Get out.”
“What’s dangerous? You?” I said this exactly how I’d thought it: Derisively.
Jude’s mouth tightened as he turned away.
“You’re being annoyingly cryptic,” I pointed out. “If you want to tell me something, then just tell me. Did you really think I was just going to go ‘oh, okay then’ and leave?”
“Yes.” There was a flatness to it.
“Seriously?” No answer. “Fine, let’s play twenty questions,” I suggested, with all the gravity this situation deserved. (None.)
“You’re not listening to me.” He didn’t look at me then. If he had, I might have thought I’d cast him right: sad, lonely boy with too much internet access, potentially an incel. Forgettable. Once a thing was known, it was easy to walk away.
But his energy was strange—it buzzed a little. His hand twitched, then curled tightly. As if to keep something caged.
A thought flashed, hot and desperate in my mind: Look at me.
“Jude.” I forced a laugh. “You’re not that scary, okay? Do you even understand how much I’m getting paid just to keep you alive?”
He shifted listlessly, his eyes still glued to something outside. A woman, presumably a drunk one, was crying. “You don’t need to.”
“Don’t need to, really? I already rescued you once.” Rescued, that was William’s word for it, not mine. It slipped out, not that it mattered.
“You didn’t keep me alive. He did.” Abruptly, Jude flinched.
“Who, your doctor? I’m the one who called him for you—”
“No.” The agitation in Jude’s voice and features rose. “Forget it. Just leave.”
“Or what?”
“Just leave me alone. I’m going to rest.” It resolved to a low mumbling; I caught him muttering something incoherent to himself. “Stop it. Stop it. Don’t—”
The scene slipped out from under me, my footing suddenly off-kilter. I still felt the same urge, insistent, to drag his eyes to mine.
“Fine.” Was it nerves that rattled me? I didn’t think so, not then.
“If you want to be alone, all you have to do is say so.” I turned away, toward the door, though I paused once I realized Jude seemed to be under increasing strain.
He’d started to sweat around his temples, and the skin of his face seemed even more clammy, to the point of looking feverish.
“Jude? Is this … is this a seizure, or—?” How quickly did these things come on?
“I don’t need you. I don’t need you. I’m fine.” Jude sounded distressed, genuinely. There was a note of panic in his voice I’d never heard before, and then he collapsed, one hand flying up to his head.
“Jude.” I rushed over to him. “Jude, are you okay?” My phone was downstairs. If I ran to get it, I could call the doctor. But then again, maybe I should stay here, to make sure he didn’t hit his head, or swallow his tongue? I tried to take his face in my hands. “Jude, look at me—”
He did then, finally. And I marveled how I had ever not known his capacity for violence.
His eyes … I recognized them the way you know you’re in a nightmare.
“Should’ve run,” he said.
Then he shoved me aside and stood. I stumbled, nearly crashing into the fragments of his collection, the box of broken tiles like stalagmites, obstructing the arc of a steadier landing.
I caught myself half balanced over the edge of an upward-facing shard, narrowly skirting a gash to my abdomen—suddenly, the perfect cropped tee felt substantially less than perfect—while he took three long strides to slam the door in his wake.
Which was fine, his leaving me behind. Until I heard a key turn in the latch.
I let out a slew of expletives, managing to secure my balance and stumbling over to try the handle. Locked, which I already knew. I’d hoped it hadn’t quite latched, or that something had gone wrong—that the door somehow couldn’t latch, or else why wouldn’t they just lock it?
I caught myself, recalling the inhumanity of it. Holding someone captive.
Even if the someone in question was a fucking maniac.
“Okay, okay,” I exhaled, looking around, trying to orient myself.
View aside, his bedroom window opened to nothing.
I darted into the bathroom, looking around.
The window was too small. Overhead was …
something. I squinted at it. I wasn’t familiar with the construction of houses like these—I’d spent my whole life in the same courtyard apartment building—but I was pretty sure it was something I could open.
There were scratches around it, scuffs on the walls, prints from the kind of work boots I’d already seen Jude wear.
Maybe if I was lucky, it would be a crawlspace, or roof access.
Obviously Jude made use of it, and therefore so could I.
I dragged the table from beside the bed into the bathroom, standing on top of it.
I looked up, surveying the hatch more closely.
The bolts that must have held it in place at one point were no longer screwed in.
Jude could probably reach it from here. I couldn’t, but at least now I knew it was worth doing.
By that point, I’d come around to a suitable degree of certainty—it was a definitive access point. No wonder they no longer bothered with locking the door. The matter of lifting myself through it would be a challenge, but at least I wouldn’t be trapped.
I glanced around, pondering my resources.
Could I Survive It? The shower curtain rod was bolted in on both sides, boot prints around it.
Okay, so I could use it as a foothold to help climb up, Jude obviously did.
Fuck, this was stupid. His medicine cabinet was also securely attached.
I was starting to think everything in his room was designed to not come down easily.
Maybe that was an epilepsy thing—did they think something could fall on him?
God, not even at my most delusional could I still reasonably believe the smokescreen of epilepsy.
Earthquake safety was mildly more plausible, but even so. Everything seemed abnormally secure.