Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Alivia
“Iwant your fucking daughter out of my house!”
While I lay in my bed, I pushed the earbuds even deeper into my ears to drown out Dean’s screaming, but no matter how hard I drove them in, I could still hear him.
The worst part about my job at Charred was that, by the time I got home, Mom and Dean were extra drunk—like tonight.
There was a chance my mom could already be passed out—unlike tonight—but Dean was always awake.
And he’d be at the above-ten-beers stage, and that was when things got completely unhinged.
“All she does is fucking cheat me out of money! How does she think the bills get paid around here? The water she showers with, the light that shines in her bedroom? I fucking pay it all! And all she does is cost me money. I want her out, Melanie. Do you fucking hear me?” He followed that up with, “Out! Now!”
There were footsteps. Ones that were headed in the direction of my room. Ones so heavy and unstable that I heard him stumble and hit the wall of the hallway and bounce back toward the center. The next noise was the slamming of his hand against my door.
“Open up, you fucking whore! Give me the fucking money you owe me. I want it right now!”
I crawled off my mattress, my earbuds falling from my ears, and I put my back against the door.
The lock could only handle so much pressure before it gave in and popped.
He’d never made his way inside, but I always wondered what would happen if he did.
It was that unknown that made me drive all my weight into the thin door, putting my hands over my ears to try and block his shouting.
“Give me more fucking money!”
I hadn’t saved as much as I’d wanted to this week because of all the cash I’d given him.
And a few of the nights after I worked at Charred, I thought if I came home with a case of beer, that would get him off my back.
And it had, until I showed up without beer, and those evenings looked like this one.
Evenings that came with endless screaming.
Pounding.
Demanding.
I can’t take this anymore.
“Let me the fuck in!” He banged several times in straight repetition. “This is my house, damn it! How dare you lock me out!”
“Dean!” My mother’s voice broke through his shouting. “You’re making me spin. Stop it!”
“Shut up, Melanie. Shut your fucking mouth right now.”
“Dean! I’m going to be sick!”
“Fuckin’ A, what the hell do you want me to do about it?” The footsteps were back, this time moving in the opposite direction.
My hands dropped from my ears just as my mom said, “Get a bucket!”
“Why can’t you hold your fucking booze, huh? I get you a bottle, and you puke it all up. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You,” she wailed. “You make me sick!”
I feel the same way, Mom.
This is the only thing we agree on.
Positioned on my hands and knees, I made my way back to my bed, finding my phone hidden within the blanket, and I squeezed it into my palm. I needed to get up in four hours for work, but I couldn’t even imagine trying to close my eyes and relax enough to actually fall asleep.
It was worth a try, slipping my earbuds back in, searching for something to watch on my cell.
I didn’t think a true crime doc would help, not when it felt like I was currently living in one.
So, I pulled up a cooking video. I was only a few minutes into it when an email came through.
I recognized the sender in the notification; she was a landlord I’d spoken to a few days ago, and that was the only reason I clicked on it.
I first want to state that it was so lovely chatting with you and showing you the room I have for rent. I appreciate your honesty about your situation, and I took your candor into consideration while I reviewed your rental application.
Unfortunately, your second job is too new. I would need a longer employment history or a more stable source of income to feel comfortable enough to rent to you, given that the rental payment would take up a majority of your income.
I’m more than willing to reevaluate things in six months or if you happen to secure a higher-paying position in the meantime.
I wish you all the luck, and again, please don’t hesitate to reach out should things change.
If I didn’t hate the noise so badly, I’d scream. But all that would do was trigger attention from Dean, and that was the last thing I wanted.
That room for rent was one of the few I’d found that I could afford with both jobs. The location was perfect, directly in between the assisted living facility and Charred, making my commute about fifteen minutes each way.
The shower even had a tub, and the bedroom came with a closet.
Details that no longer mattered.
My employment wasn’t going to change, and I couldn’t wait six months to get out of here.
“I should make you drink that fucking vomit!” Dean yelled.
As my eyes filled with tears, it felt like my chest was caving in.
That my body was sinking into the springy mattress and it wasn’t letting me go.
I needed freedom.
I needed to be far away from Dean and my mom.
But unless I wanted to sleep in my car—something I swore I would never do again after getting my first job and earning my own money—there was nowhere to go. Lex’s apartment wasn’t an option, not with how far away she lived. A hotel would be a waste of money.
I wiped my eyes, promising myself that this would somehow work out.
It had to.
There was no other choice.
And crying about something I couldn’t change was only going to keep me further away from sleeping.
I forced the knot out of my throat and any other tears from building in my eyes, and I returned to the cooking video, trying to focus on the beef Wellington the chef was preparing.
I tried to visualize myself in the kitchen, standing directly next to her.
With the knife in my hand—the beautiful one that Walker had gifted to me—the blade slicing through the mushrooms and shallots.
And as she turned on the gas range to start sautéing the vegetables, a knob I could almost feel between my fingers, a notification came across my screen.
This one was from Instagram. Someone named Whiskey35 had liked one of my posts.
Whiskey35.
It couldn’t be a coincidence …
It had to be Walker.
My lips pulled into a smile as I tapped the notification, the exact photo that he’d liked appearing on the screen.
It had been taken in the kitchen of the assisted living facility.
One of my coworkers had snapped it without me knowing, and when she sent it to me, it was just too good not to post. I was rolling out dough on one of the counters to make a batch of sugar cookies.
A treat that was offered to our residents during the month of December.
I’d even come in early to decorate the dessert.
Beneath, for the caption, I’d put, Manifesting.
Because one day, I swore to myself, I’d be rolling out cookies for my own eatery.
I’d have a place to live where I didn’t have to worry about someone banging down my door and threatening me for money.
I wouldn’t have to bribe anyone’s drunk ass with more beer.
I wouldn’t have to beg and plead to go into the kitchen and eat food that I’d paid for.
And everything I’d gone through would have been worth it.
I clicked on Whiskey35’s profile and learned that wasn’t just the handle, but also the name listed at the top. There was no other information. No bio, photo, followers, or following.
This was a burner account.
And it was one that hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon my profile.
This was someone who was looking for me. Who had likely gone through my photos. And had probably, by mistake, double-tapped one.
Walker had a verified account—I followed it—and based on the content, I had a strong feeling he didn’t manage it, that his assistant did. But Whiskey35 was the perfect way to search and stalk without being found.
If he watched a story or liked a post, no one would know it was him.
No one … but me.
“These dishes need to go out right now!” Walker snapped, his voice echoing throughout the entire kitchen.
Two food runners approached and filled their hands with plates, rushing past me as they carried them toward the dining room.
I would have helped if I wasn’t on my way in with a full, uneaten dish in my hand.
Walker stared me down as soon as I set it on the counter, causing a blanket of heat to cross my face, the redness coming through my cheeks.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Sorta.”
He eyed the food and then me. “And what would that be?”
“So, this is a kid’s dinner—”
“Of course it is, Alivia. Adults don’t come to Charred for chicken strips.”
“Right. Well, the little girl who ordered the chicken strips won’t eat them. They’re”—I held up my fingers to air-quote—“ ‘too fancy’ for her.” My hands dropped. “It’s the mom’s thirtieth birthday, and they’re here celebrating. The mom felt terrible and asked me if I would box them up.”
“I don’t need a play-by-play. Box up the damn food and get it back to them.”
“I’m coming to you because I have an idea.” The idea had hit me out of nowhere, but I never considered how Walker would react or how I would feel pitching it to him. My stomach was suddenly in knots. “I was wondering—”
“Come over here.” He pointed at the spot next to him—behind the counter.
I’d never been back there before. That area was reserved for the chefs.
I brought the plate and quickly joined him.
“I can’t wait to hear this,” he voiced.
I sucked in a deep breath, the closeness only adding to the anxiety in my stomach. “The mom told me the daughter is used to nuggets, not strips, and that’s the problem, even if they’re basically the same thing. What if I chopped up the chicken—”
He held up his finger and pointed at me. “You mean, what if Keith chops up the chicken? He’s the sous chef this evening, not you. Your role doesn’t involve chopping anything. Is that understood?”