NINE
Arlo leaves the room shortly after.
It’s his room, and his scent overpowers my senses. The pillow, the sheets, and even the damned blanket smell like him. The entire room is in a rich shade of maroon, a gorgeous color that somehow makes me feel relaxed.
The sheets are silky, complementing the matching pillowcases. From someone else’s perspective, the room might look depressing, given the lack of decorations and personal touches, but I love it. It’s one of the prettiest rooms I’ve ever been in.
Before leaving, Arlo set out a set of clothes for me to change into and two towels. The bathroom is right across from me, hidden behind the dark, oak wooden door. I drag myself to the bathroom, making sure to lock it behind me, then slip out of my dress.
He didn’t take it off.
Why?
It took me years to understand that it’s the bare minimum, yet now, when it finally happened to me, I’m left confused. Why? Why does he care more than all the other men I’ve encountered previously?
Hot water falls over my head, sliding down my body. It’s almost too hot, but perfect. My eyes flutter closed as clouds of hot steam fill the bathroom, the humid air making it difficult to breathe.
My chest rises and falls with each deep breath, the anxiety slowly going down the drain along with the water. The longer I’m under the stream, the more relaxed and at ease I’m feeling. I don’t know how much time I spend in the shower, mindless of any thoughts.
The set of clothes he laid out for me is his, but thankfully, he added a pair of new underwear. Not wearing underwear is a big no for me, and wearing his seems even worse. Why did he buy a women’s pair of underwear?
Why is he treating me so kindly? He must have a hidden agenda, right?
There’s no reason for him to be that good toward me. Especially because I thought he was long dead.
Benjamin Miller is Arlo.
The day I left prison, I left thoughts of Benjamin behind. All the sorrow I felt, all the connection I felt toward him, I left it all behind me. At some point during the hitchhiking ride, I did think that he had fled, since his office was wiped clean.
And all this time, he was alive.
Stalking me.
It should terrify me more. It should force me to use the dagger that he gave me and told me to keep. It should make me freeze in place until the monsters in my head take over my mind and soul, until I’m in too deep to return.
It doesn’t.
I hate the sense of safety that he gives me.
Is it the familiarity?
In prison, he treated me well. He always had sweets ready for me, sent me books, and we spent long, long hours talking about everything and nothing. He always went above and beyond to ensure my wounds didn’t get infected and my stitches remained intact.
However, we’re still pretty much strangers. He’s taking a big chance on a stranger, so why? If he wants something from me, I have nothing to offer. Nothing that could be of use to him.
Thoughts swirl through my brain as I wipe down my body, then wrap my hair with the second, smaller towel. The two towels are the fluffiest, softest towels known to mankind, and I could just stay wrapped in them for ages.
The gray sweatpants are a few sizes too big, but thanks to the white drawcord, I’m able to secure the pants without fearing they’d slip down. I roll up the bottom parts because I can barely walk without tripping if I leave them down.
The shirt is enormous, too. The sleeves reach my elbows, and the bottom part covers my butt. It’s now that it dawns on me just how much he grew over the years and how much he’s changed.
Ignoring the odd feeling in my stomach when I smell his perfume on the shirt, I walk out of the bathroom, barefoot. I grab the small dagger and leave the bedroom, and the smell of freshly prepared meal hits my nose.
I follow the scent, lowering down a flight of stairs. I’m met with a big living room. The windows are big, clearly showing that we’re in a building on one of the higher floors. The weather outside is surprisingly cloudy, a storm threatening to come soon.
A big piano is in the corner, next to the wide windows. It’s massive, in a deep, rich shade of brown. My heart skips a beat, and I blink. This is where he recorded all of the pieces he sent to me. I shake my head, deciding to leave the thoughts behind. Instead, I make my way toward the kitchen.
Arlo’s back is turned to me as he stands over the stove, humming a song. He’s holding the handle of the pan, a wooden spoon in the other hand, stirring the eggs inside of it. The previously fried bacon is divided into two parts, one on each plate.
Arlo turns around, a wide smile tugging on the corners of his lips. He divides the eggs into two as well, then wipes his hands on the apron. I remain glued to my spot, unsure of what to do, fiddling with the hem of the long shirt, my other hand gripping the dagger tightly.
“I hope you’re hungry,”
he says cheerfully. “I made a few different things. I’m not sure what you prefer,”
he lies, easily.
He stalked me for three years. He knows damn well what I like.
Arlo is swift on his feet, placing the two plates on the kitchen counter. Two high stools are on each side of it, and he neatly places a plate of pancakes in the middle. He adds two glasses, and wouldn’t you know it, my favorite brand of juice.
As if he’s scared I’ll disappear from his view, he’s staring at me. He blinks, trying not to seem creepy as fuck. The entire situation is already creepy, and his strange behavior only reinforces my thoughts.
“Eat.”
The tone of his voice confuses me further. It’s not an order, and it’s definitely not a question. His voice is filled with desperation, and it’s unlike anything I’ve heard before. My brows narrow, eyes flickering between the two plates.
With a sigh, he takes a seat, and my legs reluctantly drag me toward my designated seat. His entire face softens when he sees me sit across from him. The dagger rests on my lap as I pick up the utensils.
My eyes don’t leave his face. He takes his knife and fork, neatly cutting through a pancake. He puts the piece in his mouth, chews and swallows, then pushes his plate toward me and pulls mine to his side.
“Would you eat now, please?”
My head cocks to the side, unsure how to process the sincerity in his voice. He’s gazing at me with an expression I can’t name; it’s foreign to me. It’s enough to convince me that the food isn’t poisoned, and his words are almost too sweet for me to believe.
Why did he use the word please? Why is he begging me to eat? I’m going to eat regardless, now that I’ve seen him try the food himself. The thought brings me a headache, and with a sigh, I take a bite.
The pancake is soft, fluffy, and sweet. My eyes close, and I enjoy the feeling of the food sliding down my throat, almost releasing an embarrassing sound. And for the next thirty minutes, neither of us speaks.
He spends more time watching me eat than eating himself, and I’m feeling too self-conscious.
“So,”
I cleared my throat. “What is your goal here?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I have an unhealthy obsession with you?”
“Yes,”
I nod. “That much is obvious.”
He chuckles, the tone low.
“I’m about to do something very dangerous,”
his tone immediately turns serious, eyes darkening a shade. It reminds me of a storm waiting to destroy everything in its path. “And there’s someone connecting you and me.”
“Who?”
I ask, swallowing harshly.
“Nelson Adams and Paul Simmons.”
Blood runs cold in my veins, and the fork drops out of my hand, falling on the tiled floor with a thud. I blink, a bitter laugh slipping past me as I swallow back the tears, trying my best not to show any emotions.
“I have no connection to them.”
I see something shift inside of him, like a switch is flipped. Briefly, he closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. It’s as if he’s trying to regain control of himself, and for the first time, seeing nothing but emptiness on a man’s face doesn’t scare me.
It makes my heart ache.
“I believe you, Blair.”
“What?”
“I believe you.”
“You… believe me?”
I repeat, my voice coming out as nothing but a pathetic, whimpering whisper.
“I’ve believed you for a long time.”
I raise a brow, lips thinning into a line. My hands start trembling, and I fiddle with my fingers, putting them on my lap so he doesn’t see the shaky mess. My eyes are glued to my hands, tears blurring my vision. Slowly, they start rolling down my cheeks, silent, somber.
With a shaky breath, I put my hands on the counter on each side and push the chair back, standing up. The tears don’t seem to be stopping anytime soon, and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye.
My teeth clatter together as I sniff, trying to blink the blurry vision away.
“No one has ever believed me. At some point, I thought it was all in my head,”
I say, voice laced with unusual coldness. “Never say those names in my presence, ever again.”
“I can help you.”
I hear his chair screeching when he abruptly stands up. His movements are slow, careful, and uncertain. He starts approaching me, and by now, my body is a trembling mess, and I can’t stop shaking.
“I will help you.”
“Why?”
I laugh softly, bitterly, forcing myself to look into his eyes. “Why the fuck would you do that? Oh, because you see me as some sort of a broken doll and you want to fix me? It’s not a game. It’s my fucking life.”
“You’re not broken, Blair,”
his soft voice gives me goosebumps. My name rolls off his tongue with ease, and the tingling sensation hits the pit of my stomach. “You’re not a doll, and you don’t need fixing. You need to heal, butterfly. And I’ll do anything to help you heal.”
“Some wounds can’t be healed.”
“I know,”
he swallows, coming to a halt once he’s in front of me. “The least I can do is help you get your revenge.”
“That’s something you want. How can you be so sure I want it, too?”
I’m grasping for straws. I can’t fathom why he’d want to help me, especially with something as dangerous as revenge. It’s something I need, something I crave. However, I’m still trying to figure out how to execute it perfectly, so him dropping the bomb and claiming he wants to help me makes me suspicious.
Arlo tilts his head to the side, studying my face. Something akin to hurt flashes behind his eyes, and it makes me quiver. It doesn’t last long, and as if he can sense that I’m uncomfortable under his intense gaze, he averts his eyes and looks out of the window.
“Because it’s something you need.”
I hum, allowing the solace of his words to settle in. Swiftly, I walk away from him, putting the small dagger in my pocket. My feet drag me to the living room, and I sit on the small bench in front of the piano, waiting for him to join.
Arlo sits beside me, and the proximity is too brutal. His shoulder brushes against mine, yet I don’t feel confined. Emotions that threaten to spill out of my eyes are shoved back forcefully, and I ignore the sudden lump that’s lodged in my throat.
“You realize that they are next to impossible to take down, right?”
I ask, not allowing the tense silence to eat away at my confidence.
“The word isn’t in my vocabulary,”
he says, his fingers on the keys. Eagerly, I wait for him to start playing something. “And just because it’s rough and hard, it doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
“Out of curiosity,”
I lick my bottom lip, giving it back the moisture that vanished. “Why are you including me? It looks to me like you’ll do it with or without me, so why include me?”
“Because you deserve a chance to take down those bastards.”
“And if I say no?”
“I’ll always respect your no.”
He glances at me briefly before looking back at the piano. “But I saw it, butterfly. The moment I mentioned his name, there was this fire in your eyes. You want this. You need it.”
“That’s still my problem,”
I say, folding my arms in front of my chest. “What did he do to you?”
Arlo’s jaw clenches, his eyes closing.
“Simmons was involved in the murder of my Aunt Jane. Nelson Adams was the one who killed her, and my little cousin, Luna, hasn’t been seen since.”
I blink, shocked.
Just like that? I asked him a question, something personal, and he told me without missing a beat? With no pause, with no thinking whether or not he should tell me. Then again, he knows every detail of my life, so I’m writing it off as him trying to even out the score.
“I’m sorry,”
I whisper. “I hope you find her safe and sound.”
He laughs, bitterly. He flops his elbows on the keys, burying his face in his hands. The sound of the piano echoes in the room, and I’m silent, letting him speak first.
“It’ll be a miracle if I find her alive.”
Paul Simmons hurt me a lot. Physically, he never stopped until I bled out. Mentally, he obliterated any sanity I had left. But he never killed me. Maybe it’s because he never got the chance, or maybe because he never wanted a murder accusation.
The fact remains – he could’ve killed me, but he didn’t.
Why would he kill Arlo’s cousin, then?
Nelson Adams is nothing but a coward, and I’m shocked he had the balls to actually kill anyone.
Something isn’t adding up.
Whereas Simmons was assaulting me in my own bedroom, with my mother and stepfather guarding the door, he evolved into being an accomplice in murder? And kidnapping Arlo’s cousin?
I highly doubt he has the balls to pull it off.
Soon enough, Adams’ campaign will begin, and Simmons is backing him up. I’m no genius, but if Adams wins this one, I have no doubt that Simmons will try to run for president soon.
“Was your cousin present when your aunt was killed?”
Arlo shakes his head. “No, she was in school.”
It still makes no sense.
Why would he risk kidnapping a child?
She didn’t witness the murder, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. And if he’s only an accomplice, then he likely wasn’t on the scene of the murder, either. Given that he’s roaming free, all evidence is long gone.
So why?
That’s when something clicks in my head. The chances are there, yet a part of me doesn’t want to believe it. There has to be another, somewhat reasonable explanation than the one that’s running through my head, but the longer I think about it, the more it makes sense.
“You don’t mean,”
I whisper, letting the unspoken words linger in the air.
Arlo just nods, body stiff.
Breath leaves my lungs entirely, and I gasp, struggling to breathe. My eyes widen, and the reality of what is happening starts sinking in. Bile rises in my throat, and I’m trying my best not to throw up.
“Hey, Blair,”
Arlo softens his voice, trying not to spook me. “Don’t go there. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here. Stay with me.”
His words buzz in my mind, but it’s not enough. My head gets filled with memories, graphic images of whenever he touched me, whenever he covered my mouth to muffle my screams. Each time he hit me to stop me from crying, every time he left me on my bed, covered in bruises.
A choked sob slips from me when I feel a pair of arms wrap around me, pulling me closer. My face is buried in Arlo’s chest, his sweet scent hitting my nose. He squeezes me tighter to his body, stroking my hair, letting me cry it out.
I should’ve known three years ago that the reason his touch felt soothing was because we’re connected by pain. That’s why he’s gentle with me, not pushing me past my limits and listening to me even when I have no words to say.
Officially, I met Arlo an hour ago.
Yet, I trust him completely.
This will either be my triumph or my doom.