Chapter 15 #3
The next morning, I woke to find Woodrow missing. The chair was moved from the door, and the t-shirt Bonny had slept upon and gnawed at, was no longer acting as her bed, indicating that he'd taken her back to the hutch.
A note sat upon his single bedside table, reading:
Jolie,
You've probably guessed where I am. . . I'll be back soon.
I'd have asked you to come, but you looked so beautiful asleep.
The words, written on a torn-off chunk of paper from his diary, were in Woodrow's handwriting.
I took the message with me, savoring the compliment as I moved down the hall, dressed only in a long tee, to change clothes.
My summer dress—another with a floral design—skirted my hips, caressing the briefs I'd already put on, when Wynter's voice called me from down the hallway.
I hadn't seen her in days, and as crazy as it sounded, as she was still in this house, I missed her. . . assuming she was the woman I thought she was.
Doubt was creeping in.
She’d been absent, hurting Nessie in the process—something, the woman I knew, would never do.
I met Woodrow in the hallway, his breath still trying to catch up from the long walk. His gaze met me from down the corridor, floppy fringe dropping into his eyes as he slowly blinked once, encouraging me to pretend I was on a run.
I shrugged my shoulders, confusion on my face. I didn't know her well enough to know the different tones of her voice. But something about her pitch—the coldness of it—had Woodrow erupting in goosebumps.
“Jolie!” my name rattled the walls of the house, surely waking Nessie who was still asleep.
I moved closer to the master bedroom, ignoring Woodrow’s suggestion.
The door was open, so I didn’t knock.
I looked inside the room, having never been in this space before. Green and gloom decorated the vast interior. The sunlight from the balcony doors would have brightened it up, had it not been drowned out by the darkest drapes. Dust clung to everything, even my feet as I shifted over the threshold.
Ville was laying on the bed, blankets pushed down his sweaty skin to reveal his chubby body and his stumpy dick buried amongst his excess skin.
I didn’t know where to look.
My thighs rubbed together as I shifted backward into the doorframe.
“You getting a good eyeful there, honey?” he snorted, like the pig he was.
I hadn’t made peace with Ville; I never would. He was nothing like Woodrow, who had a reason for his behavior. He was just evil.
I couldn’t understand how a man could sit back and relax, watching while his son sexually abused a teenage girl. It was wrong. He was wrong.
My stomach instantly churned at the sight of him, making me feel queasy.
“Please, tell me you’re not eyeballing my husband’s cock, Jolie.” Wynter appeared in the doorway of a private shower room, hobbling with a limp. Her blunt words startled me, taking away any sensible response.
Her stare met mine as my head reeled towards her. She was in the process of doing her makeup, holding an eyelash curler, thick with old mascara, to her eyes.
My mouth fell, my answer still in hiding, but my body tried to make up for it. My head shook violently, until I had to stop over the fear of a seizure.
“Good. Because that would make me very uncomfortable. Surely, you have enough to deal with, messing around with my son.”
Did that mean she knew?
Did she know everything? Did she think what happened was okay? Or, had she just heard us last night?
Wynter moved back into the shower room, and my eyes moved to Ville. To his ugly face, where a vile smile was waiting for me. It didn’t tell me anything about Wynter’s knowledge and neither did the voice box hiding behind it, as he remained silent.
“Come here!” Wynter was getting impatient.
“What is it?” I asked, basking in the doorway, almost afraid to turn my back on her husband.
I could feel the caress as his eyes moved over my ass. And it made me feel sick again.
“We have guests coming over today. I need you to make dinner, okay?”
“That's it?” I asked, instantly regretting my assumption of it being something worse.
Dinner, I could do. I’d already assisted Wynter once or twice throughout my stay here, telling her of my love for cooking, hoping she’d be happy to incorporate some of my heritage into the dishes.
She never did, blaming Ville and his fussy eating habits.
He liked grease. . . and cared little for the flavor of something new.
“That’s it? It’s a big deal. A few friends of Ville’s from work will be here. He wants to impress them.” Her words sank into my heart like a rusty blade. Traffickers were coming here. “I'm taking Nessie on a trip into town. I've been a little distant this week.”
“Can't I come? I don't think Nessie would mind.” Dry words scraped as they climbed my throat.
"No, I don't think so. She wouldn’t mind, but we are going to have a Momma and daughter day. Family time.” Her words hurt more than I knew words could—more than the last ones she’d spoken. Family time, that I wasn't included in, because she didn't see me as part of her family.
“Of course.” I nodded, trying hard to hide my sadness and the disdain of men like Ville coming into proximity of me.
“Will I be safe here?” I stepped closer, my voice a whisper from my dry throat.
“Why wouldn’t you be?” she questioned, as if she was daring me to tell her exactly why I wouldn’t be. “Besides, I need someone to take care of my kitchen, or God only knows what kind of mess I’ll return to tonight.” She laughed, cold and false and overbearing.
Woodrow seeped into the room. I only knew because his voice was close enough for me to hear the disgust when he told Ville, “Cover up.”
“Okay,” I said to Wynter, faking a smile that matched hers. “I'll make something nice.”
Wynter didn’t gift any gratitude; her attention, given only to the tweezer in her hand as she leaned into the mirror above a makeup filled basin, plucking her sparse brows, that she would later fill in with the blackest pencil.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No. Dinner is to be ready for five.”
I nodded, though I was sure she didn’t notice.
I turned to leave, seeing Ville’s eyes still on me, and seeing his tongue smear across his dry and crispy pout over thoughts of me, allowed my legs to move quicker to get me out of the room, ushered by the son neither of them acknowledged.
I pulled the door closed, and waited for the moans of disagreement over it as I lingered in the hallway.
I breathed a heavy breath, slouching down against the wall.
“Are you okay?” Woodrow’s strong accent lifted me up.
“Have you ever met them?”
“His work friends? A few of them, once or twice. My momma doesn't like them, that's why she goes out. I usually stay up here.”
My eyes sprung to his, wide with fear.
“I won’t leave you. I promise. I’ll help you cook. I’ll be right there with you.”
He stepped forward as I pushed myself higher to reach my full height, nowhere near close to his. I always thought five-seven to be tall, for a girl, but he towered above.
He closed in on me, his skinny body pressing against mine, his eyes smiling down. “You'll be okay. I won’t leave your side after they arrive. Dinner, then we're out.”
I nodded, not able to instantly talk. “Human traffickers. . . they’ll be here, in this house.”
He pulled me into his room and closed the door, keeping our conversation private from his parents, and from Nessie, whose little voice was singing the happy songs I’d taught her down the hall.
“He’s said things. There were other girls. He’s a trafficker. What if he had my dad killed to bring me here, to control. . . you know who. What if these are the men who did it?”
Woodrow didn't say a word, silently sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Oh, fuck, I'm right. I know I'm right!”
“We can't know that.”
“Instinct. What do yours say?”
He swallowed, his hand hiding the action. His eyes downcast to the carpet beneath the toes I scrunched back, hiding the chipping paint.
“That I don't know you’re wrong. That I don't trust him, either, and I think he would do something that hateful after what recently happened here. Would you recognize them?”
“I don’t know. Why do you think they are coming? I don’t remember faces. I just remember voices. What if they are coming back for me?”
“You’ll be fine. He won't send you away. If, what you’re saying is right, he needs you.”
“So, why would they be coming here?”
“I don't know. . . but like I said, dinner and done. The first sign of trouble, we're out.”
“He’s not gonna let me walk out of that kitchen.”
“I promise you, I won't let them hurt you.”
The last sixty minutes, I'd spent with Wynter, who dictated how I prepared to cook, how I cleaned, and how I cut potatoes. Apparently, my perfect cubes, were not, in fact, perfect cubes.
I moved around the kitchen, with a scowl hiding beneath a false smile.
It was just us two down here.
I’d encouraged Woodrow to go outside with Nessie because his anxiety was putting me on a sharper edge than that of the knife I held.
He’d taken her to Bonny’s hutch, along with a lunch they’d packed for their adored pet, after she’d somehow slipped her mother’s attention for the last hour—probably because it was on me and everything I did wrong.
They'd been gone an hour already. That was how long it had taken to venture to the rabbit hutch and search the area for the missing bunny. It was my idea to stay behind, prepping food. The more I got done now, the less time I'd have to spend with the unwanted company.
While I prepared for the meal I'd be cooking, Nessie was still double-checking everywhere they'd already searched for Bonny, who wasn’t in her usual space.
The little animal loved her hutch, but she loved Woodrow’s gentle touches more, and often followed him back to the house to be closer to him.