Chapter 32 #2
No. They wouldn’t sit like that. Wouldn’t leave marks like this. And they’d be on all four posts, not only these.
I step back again, my gaze dragging over the bed, the space between the posts keeps drawing my attention. That empty stretch of mattress is big, exposed.
Unease creeps into my chest.
I exhale, forcing my shoulders to drop away from my ears, trying to shake it off.
“It could be anything,” I mutter, trying to convince myself but the longer I stand there, the worse it gets.
The spacing. The height.
The empty stretch between the posts.
No.
The room changes then. It happens so quickly it takes me a second to notice. One moment it’s bright, light pouring in through the windows, and the next, it isn’t. A cloud must have moved over the sun, stealing the warmth from the space.
The chandelier dulls. Shadows deepen. Every fine hair on the backs of my arms, my neck stands up.
I whirl around, suddenly and irrationally convinced that I’m not alone, except this time it’s not Carrson I expect to see but someone else.
A ghost maybe. The skeletal remains of Carr Ashford, or one of his other ancestors.
I can almost picture it, smell it. The decaying flesh.
The scrap of bone across the floor. The moan of a creature who will never rest in peace.
Is this why he took down all the pictures? Did Carrson sense this too?
I take a step back, my head whipping as I try to watch all corners of the room at once. My stomach rolls, a slow wave of nausea.
“Okay. It’s okay,” I say, but it comes out high.
My heart beats irregularly, jarring against my ribs.
I walk backward toward the door, refusing to take my eyes off the bed.
The moment I reach the hallway, I slam the doors shut and finally turn, walking fast, faster, until I’m practically jogging by the time I reach the stairwell.
I take the stairs two at a time. The entire way down I can’t shake it.
The paranoid idea that there was someone, something, in that room.
By the time I reach the bottom floor, all I know is this: I never want to go back in there.
***
I waste the next forty minutes pawing through empty bedrooms, bathrooms, and the conservatory. Plus, a room for wrapping presents because rich people are fucked up and believe that’s more important than, I don’t know, feeding all the starving children in the world.
I keep an eye on my watch, allotting thirty minutes for the last room, the one I believe is the most important. If Carrson hasn’t tampered with it, of course.
It’s on the ground floor, close to the kitchen. When I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigars. It’s everywhere in this room. Smoke from years ago that seeped into the wallpaper, the rug, the furniture and stayed there.
I remember those circles on Carrson’s thighs, my father liked cigars, and I seriously consider lighting a match and watching this whole room go up in flames.
It would burn quickly because the place is a disaster.
Papers, folders, books litter every surface.
They spill onto the floor. None of them are neatly stacked or organized in any sort of way.
My mother used to point at my messy bedroom and then at Remi’s clean one and shake her head. She said a person’s home was a reflection of their mind, of their mental state.
If she’s right, then Carr Ashford was a raving lunatic.
I wade into the center of the room and clear a space on the floor, sweeping paper aside until they form tiny mountains all around me. I pick up the nearest one, a single sheet of white paper with typed print. Times New Roman. Double spaced.
The Guatemala shipment route is compromised. Suggest Panama.
Expect twelve kilos on Sunday.
I turn the paper over, but the other side is blank. There’s no date. No names. No stamp or postmark. Okay, I’ll assume this one is about drugs. What else is kilos used for?
I put it on my right and grab another.
Rep. from Arkansas wins by a twenty percent majority. Confirm.
Are they reporting results or deciding them? That one goes to my left.
Another.
NASDAQ closes down 34. Order holdings rise 54%.
I tap my lip thinking, then put it by my left hip. Finances, I mentally label it.
The next document reads.
Trial A test group subject combative. Will continue double blind with Group B and C.
What are they testing? Drugs? Medications? I put it by my feet.
This one is older, the paper yellowed, brittle. Parchment.
20 head of cattle. 38 chicken. Mildred Swinton.
I stare at that for a long time, reading her name over and over, a buzzing in my ears like angry bees.
The next piece of paper is even worse. More confusing and more unsettling because I’m starting to recognize some of the words. Bond. Mother. Heir.
ARTICLE VII — SUCCESSION
Bonded males may maintain up to three female bonds simultaneously.
Upon authorization for lineage continuation, one bonded female shall be elevated to Mother status. She may receive between one to three Daughters with three preferred to preserve proper generational balance.
ARTICLE VIII — HEIR STEWARDSHIP
Male heirs shall remain under paternal stewardship.
Female offspring shall remain under maternal stewardship until bonding eligibility.
ARTICLE IX — LINEAGE DESIGNATION
Firstborn male heirs shall inherit the paternal lineage name in full, including the suffix designation “-son.”
Upon successful production of an authorized male heir, the paternal Don shall relinquish the suffix designation to the next generation as recognition of completed succession.
Lineage continuity shall be preserved without interruption.
ARTICLE X — REPRODUCTIVE ALLOCATION
No lineage group shall exceed approved offspring allocation.
Violations are subject to Order review and corrective action.
I reread it four times, until my head hurts, trying to understand and failing spectacularly.
What are they talking about? Three women.
Corrective action? Offspring allocation?
Like children are numbers to be balanced instead of people to be loved.
What kind of handmaid’s tale, cult-leader, patriarchal nightmare bullshit is this?
I stare at the page again, half expecting the words to rearrange themselves into something less insane.
They don’t.