Chapter 16
Jolie—aged eighteen
Wynter left around an hour ago—an hour later than planned.
Nessie was late getting home, and when she did, she was covered in mud and tears that her brother was apparently liable for.
Her little red face was shaking back and forth, eyes blinking once, and her mouth was telling her mother that it wasn’t Woodrow’s fault.
But Wynter didn’t believe her, instantly pinning blame.
Pissed off at Nessie, who’d needed a second bath and change of clothes, she’d dragged her up the stairs.
I heard Nessie trying to explain something about her father, but she didn’t say much, just that his shed was dirty.
He, conveniently, wasn’t gifted any harsh words by his wife before she left the grounds, small daughter dragged behind, tears still coating her pink-rimmed eyes.
I rearranged some pans on the stove, the naked flame rusting the bad paint.
They didn’t look like the kind of cookware you’d bring out for guests, but during her dictation, Wynter had assured me these were the ones.
The garnet color camouflaged what I could only assume was old food, unwashed from whenever they were used last.
I didn’t have any idea what had gone on outside while I learned the kitchen rules.
Woodrow hadn’t told me; he hadn’t even come inside yet.
And Ville hadn't come inside, either. I could see him through the window, standing with his back to me, in the longer strands of grass, phone pressed to his big ear and a billow of smoke around him from the cigar in his mouth.
I hated him, as much as the stench of this kitchen. . . and the sight of it. I hated this whole house. Dark and depressing, like my thoughts over tonight.
I collected some herbs from the pantry. Rosemary, sage, garlic salt—all of which were jarred and not fresh, clumped together at the bottom of the jars, thanks to the dank air that lived within these walls.
But I had to make do with what I had, and I thought they might bring out the best flavors of the surprise dish.
I still hadn’t been told what meat I was cooking, and in other circumstances, I'd have been excited to take the reins for a while.
. . but my circumstances were grim, and the refrigerator was almost empty.
Gazing over the shelves to the house’s sweat dripping down the back wall, I relived old memories. . . cooking back home, making hearty and healthy meals for my dad and me.
Ah, I miss him so much.
My heart began to ache as I stepped from the pantry, closing the door with my foot. “Please, guide me through this,” I asked him.
I sighed, and gave one of the jars a shake to loosen the contents molded together.
The autumn heat slipped inside the house as a door opened.
Woodrow’s feet dragged him into the room. I looked him over, noticing he was wearing muddy shoes on the floor I’d already polished around thirty minutes ago. Another order from Wynter.
He didn’t speak. His chest rose and fell, straining under his loose t-shirt. His jeans were stinking from the knee down. I didn’t comment on the mess he trailed in, my thoughts cut off by his words.
“You gotta go,” was all he said.
I placed the herbs on the work surface, the little jars clunking against the granite.
“What is it?” I asked, apron off and ready for flight.
Woodrow didn’t look at me. He didn’t answer, but the tears rolling down his flushed cheeks told a story. A tale I'd already read. A very sad story of loss and heartache.
“He found her?” I asked, my legs rushing to him, my hands rushing to his face, dropping to his throat a second later. “Did he do this? Hurt you like this, again?”
He only answered my first question. “He found her.” His big hands covered his face, eclipsing mine. Hiding the pain. The hate. “God, he found her.”
“Is she. . .?” I wondered, examining the deep shades of purple on his face and neck.
“She's gone.” His hands were down now, shaking fingers in mine. “She's gone. And she fucking suffered. I fucking hate him!” Woodrow seethed, and the anger on his face told me that he wished his father dead. The sympathy afterwards told me he was sorry. . . because I wished for my father to live.
But Woodrow didn't have to apologize to me.
I wished the same for Ville.
“I need you to run. He's evil. Pure evil. I know he’ll hurt you. I just know it.”
“You can't run. We’ll get caught!”
“I'm not coming.”
“No way.” I shook my head, stepping back, our hands falling apart. “Together. We said together.”
“You can get help.”
“We said together,” I repeated with grounding firmness. I wouldn’t budge on this. I wouldn’t leave him behind with a man who would put those kinds of injuries on him, knowing that the area he was causing pain, was already traumatized.
“Okay. Together,” he reluctantly agreed. “But if I can't keep up, leave me behind. Wait for me at the road. . . and if I don't come, keep going.”
“No. We go together. I won’t leave you here with him.”
He didn't speak for a silent second. The room was quiet enough to hear the gravel outside crunching under tires. The same noise I heard when Wynter rushed out to the taxi. . . only heavier. A van was parking.
I kept my attention front and center, not daring a look out into the hallway. I kept it on Woodrow, the boy who always managed to steal it.
“I feel distant, Jolie. I feel different. I know it's coming. I know he's coming. And I'd rather you be nowhere near me when he takes over.”
A bustle of noise came from outside. . . meet and greets.
Woodrow’s eyes moved to a clock sitting on the wall. Large and proud, taking up the whole space. Its shiny face, the only piece of white in the dark room. “It’s only three. These people shouldn't be here yet.”
He pulled me to the back door, frustration filling him, as he realized it was locked. His eyes dropped to the lock, but there was no key.
“We could go through the window.” I gazed out through the glass, noting that Ville had moved from his previous position.
“No.” His word was sharp, like the knife on the countertop he was eyeballing. His long lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“There's no time. Don't let on.” His request was a whisper along my skin, the wind bringing it closer as the front door opened again.
Woodrow turned on the tap and placed the kitchen knife—fit for a slasher villain—in my shaking hands, his fingers sealing it in my grip with a gentle caress.
The running tap water was part of the act. A prop to make it appear I was washing the vegetable smell from the blade. But the knife was no prop; it was a weapon, to be used if needed, in self-defense.
“You like cooking?” he asked, drifting away from me to the table. A clever diversion from our true plans, a quick gaze confirming.
“I do,” I answered with a smile. A real smile, tainted by golden memories that even my fears couldn't touch. “I used to cook for my dad a lot. We ate healthy because he was a dancer and I did track. My mother was Cuban, so I used to like incorporating my heritage into the dishes.”
“You were close to your family.”
“I loved them so much." I hated telling my story knowing Ville's listening ears were moving closer. But I had to play my part, so I continued, “My dad was an amazing person.”
“He sounds like a good father.” Woodrow's sneer came as Ville entered the room, dirty boots soiling the floors even more.
He was the best. I nodded, my nostrils flaring as I struggled with the tears creeping into my eyes.
I could have sworn I heard the words, 'Nothing like mine.' But Woodrow was silent when I turned to him. I turned off the tap, but I kept the knife in my hand.
I continued my portrayal of an unsuspecting teenager.
I coated the chopped potatoes in oil. Then I cut up some veggies I found at the back of the refrigerator to accompany them on the tray that would go into the boiling oven I’d preheated.
“I hope none of these people have food allergies,” I voiced fake concerns.
I adjusted the temperature using the oven dials but didn’t pay that much attention to the alteration. My attention was on Woodrow, eyes blinking continuously.
The potatoes would take a while on this heat setting, giving me plenty of time to cook whatever meat I was meant to boil. And to find it.
The refrigerator didn’t grant me options.
I stared inside again, as if something would magically pop up, but for the second time, I found only one packet of pork, three days out of date.
I inhaled the repugnant scent, wondering if that was what was stinking out the kitchen.
. . or at least, adding to whatever stank out the kitchen.
“I don’t know what to cook,” I mumbled, before being distracted by deep voices.
More people flooded through the door, dirty boots on the floor, dirty talk filling the air, getting louder as they neared. Scents of tobacco and dirt—the kind you couldn’t wash away—emanated from their skin as the floorboards screamed of their unwelcome.
I felt Woodrow’s eyes moving over our guests, weighing up the three men standing in front of us, all of whom, were picking at different parts of their skin or clothing.
One man, the least attractive of the three, stepped inside the kitchen, claiming a seat at the table. He plumped himself down at Woodrow’s side and shoulder-bumped him, almost hitting his skinny frame to the floor.
“Hey, kid! How you doing?”
Woodrow ignored the question, straightening himself.
The man, sitting in a black tee and jeans—color-coded, to match the shade of his damaged soul—looked to Ville. “Alerion sends his regards.” The creep nodded to Ville. “Kidding. No one has heard from him for ages.”
“When he sends seventeen years of child maintenance, then we'll talk about him, huh, Ville?” said another—a man with a bad haircut—skulking into the room.