4. Jules
JULES
A lthough my eyes are tired and my head and limbs ache, I don’t move. Not an inch. Not since I took the engagement ring off my finger and flung it across the room.
I’m far too aware of every event that led to this. It’s as if I’ve lived my life under the warm silk sheets of the most welcoming bed, only to be kicked out, landing face-first on the cold, cracked concrete floor.
More than anything, one word keeps coming to mind.
Unprepared. I have no idea what to do, or even what to think.
It’s all a mess. My life is a jumbled mess of chaos and tragedy.
It’s hard enough to grasp the fact that Jace was murdered.
Much harder still to think that I fell in love with his murderer.
I need to get away. Far away from Mason just so I can think straight.
I can’t focus on anything else other than that one truth: I need to get the hell out of this room.
The bedroom door’s locked from the outside; the telltale jingle of keys and then the loud click of the lock a few moments ago alerted me to that.
I already know it’s the case without even trying to turn the knob.
I suppose that’s better than having to face him.
To my left, the curtain sways and draws my eyes.
My throat closes at the thought of seeing him again. I loved him. My heart feels like a vise is clamped around it, squeezing tighter each time I think about who Mason really is and what I’ve done. I fell in love with my husband’s killer.
The shock is still there, but it’s not enough to keep the sickness of my reality at bay.
My head feels dizzy—from exhaustion maybe, I’m not sure, but I don’t have time to think. I don’t have time for anything until I’m far away from here.
I stare at the lone window in this room. I know it’s an idiotic notion to think I can climb down from the second story and land safely below, but I have no other choice and I refuse not to try.
If there’s one thing the recollection of the events leading up to this have screamed at me, it’s that I need to take action and stop allowing life to railroad me.
I don’t have my keys, my phone or wallet.
With the groan of the bed seemingly chiding me as I stand up and make my way to the window, I peek outside to see there’s already a thin layer of snow on the ground.
Given its late November in New York, I’m not shocked but it’s still frustrating.
If I make it down there alive without breaking my neck, he’ll be able to see where I’ve gone.
A part of me huffs at the thought, knowing this is foolish, trying to escape.
But I only need to flag someone down on the road or bang on a neighbor’s door. I have to try, and I’m not waiting another second.
The floor in the bedroom is creaky and every little sound forces me to check that the door is still closed.
I know he’ll be able to hear me from downstairs if he’s listening.
I’m careful with each step and do my best to limit the noise as I move around.
I inhale deeply through clenched teeth as I open the dresser as quietly as I can but it’s loud just the same as I slowly pull on the drawer.
I’ve never noticed it before, but right now every single noise is far too loud.
My heart rampages in protest at each squeak and groan from the wooden floors. I’m only getting dressed , I tell myself over and over. If he comes up now, if he hears me and storms into the room to check on me, I’m only getting dressed. Surely that’s what he must think.
My eyes burn with unshed tears thinking about Mason coming up here. Realizing the fear I now have for a man I once loved makes my chest feel unbearably tight.
What if he catches me?
What will he do when he’s realized I’ve left?
Even worse: What would he do to me?
I swallow down the insecurity and fear; I can’t be paralyzed by them. I can’t wait here in this damn room for him to decide what to do with me. I’m stronger than that.
The first shirt and pair of leggings I pull out are good enough and then from the drawer below, I grab a pair of jeans to pull over top of the leggings.
It’s freezing outside. I don’t have a coat because they’re all downstairs in the hall closet, but I layer a sweater and then another one over my long-sleeved shirt.
It’s hard to tell if the burning heat is from the fabrics or from the anxiety that rages through me.
My fingers shake as I pull down the long cashmere sleeves. If he came up now, he’d know for sure that this is more than me just getting dressed. I’m dressed to leave. The thoughts don’t slow me, they only push me to be faster; I’m fueled by nerves and the desperation to save myself.
I can barely breathe as I kneel and tie the shoelaces on a pair of sneakers I grabbed from the walk-in closet.
My hands don’t stop trembling and my vision keeps going in and out as the dull pain behind my eyes gets worse.
I sway as my light-headedness becomes too much, and I have to close my eyes and breathe. Just breathe.
I stand on wobbly legs and walk as quietly as I can to the window, which is just as unhelpful as it was a moment ago.
Staring over my shoulder at the closed door, I lick my dry, cracked lips as I unlock the window.
The lock on the left turns easily but the one on the right is tight, and I need both hands and all my focus to loosen it.
Each second that passes seems too long, as if this small moment is enough time for him to stop me.
Tick , tick , tick .
The sound of my heavy breathing and the blood rushing in my ears are all I hear as I push the window up as high as I can.
I manage to lift the heavy thing about two feet, and I hope it’ll be enough.
I know there’s a way to somehow angle the window and get the screen out, but in my haste and nervousness, I can’t figure it out.
The heater clicks on again and I nearly have a heart attack, my scream barely contained as it tries to escape from my throat.
Tick , tick , tick .
I can’t wait any longer. As the heat drifts up from the vent and mixes with the frigid November air that blows across my face, I panic.
My only thought is to rip out the screen. Without wasting another tick of the internal clock, I snatch a shirt from the hamper to my right and wrap it around my hand. My footsteps were far too loud, but time is more important.
I take one more look back at the door before punching through the screen.
It breaks surprisingly easily and I nearly fall forward, the torn mesh scraping against my forearm.
I contain my gasp and ignore how my heart seems to leap up my throat as I look down two stories to the cold hard ground below. It’s a sobering sight.
There’s a thin layer of white snow coating the grass and although the weather has let up, the air is sharp from the biting wind.
I take a deep breath, pulling the ripped screen back and tearing it open more, protecting my hand with the clothing.
Somehow ripping it wider is more difficult than making the initial tear.
My breathing comes in faster, and the light-headed sensation returns when the hole is large enough for me to climb through.
All the spiked edges of the broken screen are going to catch on my sweater, I already know.
Once I get footing out on the sill, I’ll have to try to grip onto the pillar to my right and slowly climb down while balancing myself on the stones that line the house.
It’s practically impossible. My head shakes of its own accord at the thought, refusing to feel defeated.
I have to do this. I have no other choice.
The threads of my sweater snag like I knew they would the moment I climb into the window and brush against the screen, but I press forward.
As my left foot finds purchase on the windowsill, the wind blows so forcefully that I cling to the frame with my right hand and consider abandoning the idea completely.
I’ve gone absolutely mad. My nose and cheeks burn from the biting cold, and I have to close my eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I refuse to go back in there. The second the wind stops, I finish crawling out and balance on the ledge, my knuckles bright white from holding on so tightly.
Each time I have to readjust my grip, I’m filled with a renewed sense of terror.
Only the balls of my feet are balanced on the thin ledge, and my hands already ache from clutching the window in the bitter cold.
I make the mistake of looking down and seeing how far I’d drop and how there’s nothing to break my fall if the wind were to blow too hard. Or if my grip gives out, or if something else happens and I fail. I don’t want to die.
A few moments pass and I simply can’t move. The wind whips my hair around my face and I shut my eyes tight, frozen by the vision of me plummeting to my death.
This is taking too much time. I need to get going. My left foot moves first, all the way to the edge of the sill and as far as I can get with both of my hands still gripping the window frame.
I have to let go in order to lean over, and I do it so quickly and with so much force that I nearly push myself off.
My head spins from the height, but I keep moving.
My right hand grips the window and my left reaches for the brick closest to the pillar.
My nails scratch at the rough stone, but my grip is solid.
I feel stuck for the longest time. The cold makes my hands numb and the wind is coming and going so frequently that I’m afraid the second I move, it will violently rip me away from the pillar, but I manage the motion in a single leap.
A scream is torn from my throat as I fall an inch or two until my sneaker hits the decorative carving on the pillar and I’m able to wrap my arms around it. Adrenaline roars inside of me and I pray Mason didn’t hear. And then I make another silent prayer: that this foolish plan will work.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I climb down inch by inch.
The only places I dare to look are directly in front of me and up to the open window.
I watch the curtains sway inside of the bedroom as I slip down the pillar at a snail’s pace, relying on the tread of my sneakers against the carved marble pillar for purchase.
I don’t even realize I’ve made it safely until I try to slide farther down and can’t. There’s ground beneath my feet.
Astonished and still very much consumed by fear, I note my sweater is torn with pulls everywhere, and I’m so cold I can hardly move my limbs. I look up once more at the open window and realize it’s only a matter of time before he realizes I’m gone.
Run. I don’t hesitate one more second. My sore limbs come to life as I take off down Mason’s driveway and I don’t look back.