Chapter 6 - Claire
The house is beautiful.
That's my first thought once Tom leaves and the door clicks shut behind him. I stand in the living room, Jackson still asleep in the guest room, and just... look.
Everything is clean. Not obsessively so, but clean in a way that speaks to someone who takes care of their space.
The hardwood floors are swept, the surfaces dust-free, books arranged neatly on the shelves.
The couch has a throw blanket folded over one arm, and the coffee table holds a half-finished crossword puzzle and a mug with coffee rings at the bottom.
It's lived-in but cared for. Comfortable. Real.
Nothing like the penthouse.
Derek's place, our place, though it never felt like mine, was always a disaster.
Expensive furniture covered in takeout containers and empty bottles.
Designer clothes thrown over chairs. Mail piled up on the counter because he couldn't be bothered to sort through it.
He had a cleaning service that came once a week, but by the next day, everything was trashed again.
I used to try to keep it clean. Used to spend my days picking up after him, organizing, making things presentable. But he'd just mess it up again, sometimes deliberately, leaving his shit everywhere like he was marking territory.
Eventually, I stopped trying. What was the point? Nothing I did was ever good enough anyway.
But this house feels different. Like someone actually lives here, not just exists. Like someone comes home at the end of the day and finds peace in these walls.
I walk over to the record player, running my fingers over the smooth wood. The album sitting on top is Miles Davis, *Kind of Blue*. I don't know much about jazz, but even I've heard of this one. Classic, timeless.
The bookshelf is full of thrillers—Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Daniel Silva. Worn paperbacks with cracked spines, the kind that have been read and reread. A man who loves his books enough to keep coming back to them.
I check on Jackson, still asleep, his mouth slightly open, Rex tucked under his arm, then make my way to the kitchen.
And oh.
The kitchen is perfect.
It's not large, maybe twelve by ten, but it's thoughtfully laid out.
White cabinets with simple hardware, butcher-block countertops that show the wear of use but are clean and well-maintained.
A gas stove, an actual gas stove, not electric, with six burners and a griddle in the middle.
The kind of stove that's meant for real cooking.
I open the cabinets one by one, taking inventory. Cast iron skillets, well-seasoned and cared for. A proper set of knives in a wooden block, not the cheap ones from a department store. Pots and pans in various sizes, all clean, all organized.
This is a kitchen that belongs to someone who actually cooks.
The pantry is modest but well-stocked with basics like rice, pasta, canned tomatoes, olive oil. Spices arranged alphabetically on a small shelf. Salt and pepper in ceramic grinders. A jar of honey, another of peanut butter.
I move to the refrigerator, hesitating before I open it. He said to help myself, but this feels invasive somehow. Like I'm looking through his private things.
But I'm hungry, and more than that, I want to cook. Need to cook. It's been so long since I had a real kitchen, space to work, ingredients to use. Derek always ordered in. He said it was easier, said my cooking was "fine but why bother when we can get whatever we want delivered."
Translation: another way to keep me from having purpose, from doing something I was good at.
I open the fridge.
It's not full, bachelor's fridge, clearly, but there's more than I expected. Eggs, milk, butter, cheese. Some vegetables in the crisper that look relatively fresh: bell peppers, onions, garlic. A package of chicken breasts. And in the back, surprisingly, a bag of frozen shrimp.
My mind immediately starts planning. Pasta with shrimp, maybe. Garlic, olive oil, a little butter, some of those peppers if they're still good. Simple but delicious. The kind of meal that feels like home.
A piece of paper on the fridge catches my eye. Numbers written in neat handwriting:
*Fire Dept: 555-0147*
*Hardware - Frank: 555-0892*
*Murphy: 555-0234*
Practical numbers. Emergency contacts. The kind of thing someone who lives alone keeps handy.
I look back at the shrimp, at the pasta in the pantry, at this beautiful kitchen that's begging to be used. He said to help myself to anything. He's been nothing but kind. The least I can do is make a proper meal—for Jackson, for me, and yes, for Tom when he gets home.
If he gets upset that I used his food, I'll apologize. I'll offer to replace it. But right now, I need to do this. Need to feel useful, capable, like something more than just a charity case taking up space in a stranger's home.
I start pulling out ingredients.
An hour later…
The kitchen smells like heaven.
Garlic and butter sizzle in the pan, filling the air with that rich, savory scent that makes your mouth water. I've got the pasta boiling, the shrimp cleaned and ready, the peppers diced. Classical music plays softly from my phone, Vivaldi, one of the few things Derek never complained about.
Jackson woke up twenty minutes ago and is now in the living room, making Rex walk across the couch cushions while narrating an elaborate story about dinosaurs in a jungle. His voice drifts into the kitchen, happy and animated, and my chest feels warm.
When was the last time I heard him sound like this? Not cautious, not scared, not trying to be quiet so he doesn't disturb Daddy. Just... happy.
I add the shrimp to the pan, watching them turn pink and curl. The smell intensifies: seafood and garlic and butter, a combination that never fails. I learned to cook from my mother, spending Sunday afternoons in her kitchen while she taught me how to make everything from scratch.
God, I miss her.
The thought comes unbidden. Four years since I've spoken to her. Four years since I screamed that she was a controlling bitch and stormed out of her house on Derek's arm, believing his poison about how my family didn't want the best for me.
She was right about him. She knew from the beginning. And I didn't listen.
How do you come back from that? How do you call your mother after four years and say, "You were right, I was wrong, I'm sorry"? How do you explain that you let a man isolate you so completely that you lost everyone who ever mattered?
The pasta is done. I drain it, toss it with the shrimp and garlic butter, add a squeeze of lemon from a withered lemon I found in the crisper. It's not fancy, but it looks good. Smells good.
Tastes even better, I discover, taking a small bite to test the seasoning. Perfect.
"Jackson, honey! Dinner's ready!"
He comes running, Rex bouncing in his hand. "What is it?"
"Pasta with shrimp."
His nose wrinkles. "What's shrimp?"
"Try it. I think you'll like it."
I make him a small plate, cutting the shrimp into bite-sized pieces, and watch as he takes his first cautious bite. His eyes widen.
"Mommy, this is so good!"
Pride swells in my chest. Such a small thing, making dinner for my son, but it feels like a victory. Like reclaiming a piece of myself that Derek tried to take away.
We eat at Tom's small kitchen table, Jackson swinging his legs and telling me about the dinosaur adventure Rex is having.
I make myself a plate too, larger than I probably should, but I'm actually hungry for the first time in days.
The food is warm and comforting, and for just a moment, I let myself relax.
This is nice. This is what normal feels like.
It can't last. I know that. Nothing good ever lasts. But for right now, in this moment, I'm going to pretend we're safe. Pretend we're home.
I'm washing the dishes when someone knocks on the door.
My whole body goes rigid. Tom wouldn't knock. This is his house. He'd just come in. I dry my hands on a towel, my heart starting to race. "Jackson, stay in the kitchen."
"Why?"
"Just stay here, baby. Don't come out until I say so."
I move toward the front door, my pulse pounding in my ears. It's probably nothing. A neighbor. The mailman. Someone looking for Tom.
Another knock. Harder this time.
"Who is it?" I call out, trying to keep my voice steady.
No answer.
"Who's there?" I try again, louder.
Still nothing. Just another knock, even harder. More insistent.
My blood turns to ice.
I back away from the door, every instinct screaming at me to run, to grab Jackson and go out the back, to get as far away as possible.
Then I hear it. The voice that haunts my nightmares.
"Open the fucking door, Claire."
No.
No, no, no.
"I know you're in there. I can see the lights. I can smell your cooking." Derek's voice is cold, the tone he uses when he's at his most dangerous. "Open the door. Now."
My legs almost give out. How did he find me? How is he here? We're in the middle of nowhere, in a town I chose at random, staying in a house that belongs to someone I just met.
"Claire." He says my name like a threat. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Open the door and we can talk like adults."
"Go away!" My voice comes out shaky and weak. "Leave us alone!"
"Us?" His tone shifts, becomes poisonous. "You mean, you and my son? And who does this house belong to? I see… You've already replaced me. Already found some new man to latch onto. What, was I not good enough? Not rich enough? You had to run off and find someone else?"
"It's not… That's not—"
"OPEN THE DOOR!" He slams against it, and I hear the frame rattle. "I'll break it down, Claire. You know I will. And then I'll find this man who thinks he can take what's mine, and I'll make sure he regrets ever laying eyes on you."
Oh God. He thinks Tom and I are together. He's going to hurt Tom.
"Mommy?" Jackson's voice, small and scared, comes from the kitchen doorway. "Why is Daddy here?"
Derek must hear him because he starts talking in that sickeningly sweet voice he uses with Jackson. "Hey buddy! Daddy missed you! Tell Mommy to open the door so I can give you a hug!"
Jackson looks at me, confused and frightened. "Mommy?"
"Go to the bedroom, Jackson. Now. Lock the door and don't come out."
"But Daddy—"
"Now!"
He runs, and I hear the bedroom door slam. The lock clicks. Derek pounds on the door again, all pretense of sweetness gone. "You turned my son against me! You poisoned him! You bitch, you fucking—"
The names pour out, each one a knife I've heard a thousand times before. Worthless. Stupid. Fat. Ungrateful. A litany of everything I've supposedly done wrong, everything that's my fault, every way I've failed him.
I'm frozen, my back against the wall, my mind spinning. What do I do? Call 911? Run? Try to reason with him?
My hand fumbles into my pocket, and I feel the card. Tom's card. The one with his cell number on the back. My fingers shake so badly I almost drop my phone. I pull up the keypad and dial, praying he answers, praying he can help, praying this isn't the moment where everything falls apart.
It rings once. Twice.
Derek is still shouting, still pounding. I hear wood starting to crack.
Three rings.
"Come on, come on, please—"
"Tom Harris."
His voice, calm and professional, breaks through my panic. I try to speak but nothing comes out except a sob.
"Claire? Is that you?"
"He's here." The words come out in a rush, barely coherent. "My ex… He's here, he's at your door, he's trying to break in, he knows about you, he's going to hurt you, I don't know what to do—"
"Lock yourself and Jackson in the bedroom. Now. I'm five minutes away. Do not open that door, do you hear me? No matter what he says."
"Tom, he's breaking it down—"
"Five minutes, Claire. I'm coming. Just hold on."
Another crash against the door, and this time I hear wood splinter.
"He's coming in—"
"Bedroom. Now. And Claire?" His voice is harder now, the sheriff voice. The voice of someone who's been in combat, who knows how to handle danger. "I need you to be strong for five more minutes. Can you do that?"
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Yes."
"Good. Go. I'm already pulling up to the house."
I run for the bedroom, phone still clutched in my hand. Jackson is huddled on the bed, Rex held tight against his chest, his eyes wide with terror.
I lock the door behind me and pull him into my arms, covering his ears as Derek's voice gets louder, more violent, more threatening.
And I pray that Tom gets here before Derek breaks through. Before everything I've been running from catches up to me. Before the life I was trying to build shatters into pieces I can never put back together.