Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
I‘m shaking, trembling so hard it feels like my bones might shatter from the force of it. Sobs wrack my body. Harsh, angry sobs that rip through my chest like they’re trying to take pieces of me with them.
Liam’s voice is somewhere in the background, and it’s steady. Like a distant heartbeat I want to lean into but can’t quite reach. His words slip past me, and I can’t seem to grab a hold of them. They’re here, but I can’t make sense of them no matter how hard I try.
And my scalp hurts.
I don’t even remember moving, but now I’m on the stairs.
The cold wood presses into my back, and it’s here that I start to feel his presence—really feel it.
Liam sits next to me, and he doesn’t even need to touch me for me to feel his warmth.
I’m suddenly thankful Naomi called Liam of all people—there’s something about him that reminds me of the sun.
Not a morning sun, more like the sun right before it sets.
You don’t know when it’ll finally set, but it’s beautiful and warm, and watching it brings you joy. That’s what Liam is.
An evening sun personified into one human being.
“H-he…” My voice cracks, and I choke on the words. Liam’s eyes are on me, intense, silently willing me to keep going.
His gaze lands on the cut on my face that I bet looks as bad as it feels, and I know what he sees: a mess.
“He had a knife.” The words crumble like ash in my mouth.
I glance down at my hands, bloodied and shaking.
“I tried to fight him off.” I see the memory somewhere painted in my mind, and I picture myself taking a can of white paint—the best kind—and throwing it all over the canvas.
It leaves a mess, but it does the job. And at least I don’t feel like throwing up anymore.
“I had to…” My voice drops, and I stare at my hands, their red a colour I’m slowly beginning to despise. “I stabbed someone.” In these hands, I held a weapon. With these hands, I used it. Tears blur my vision, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.
His eyes darken, a storm brewing behind his calm exterior. His jaw tightens, but his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “You did what you had to do,” Liam says, and I know he’s right. I just never thought it’d come to this.
I nod, but the words don’t reach me. They’re lost somewhere between my soul and the mess in my head.
Then his tone shifts, becoming sharper. “Where the fuck are your sisters?”
I point upstairs, my voice thin. “Naomi’s in the closet. It’s locked.” I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, but I know what he’s thinking.
“And the other one?” His question is clipped, demanding. I shrug, my stomach twisting. “She got away. I don’t know where she went.”
Liam stands abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. He curses under his breath, and I can practically feel his annoyance radiating off him.
I follow him to the closet, my legs unsteady beneath me. When I open the door, Naomi tumbles out, her wide, terrified eyes locking onto mine.
“Adeline!” Her voice is high and frantic, relief and panic blending together. “I thought they got you, I thought—” The words break apart, swallowed by sobs.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though the words feel like a lie. It’s a bitter taste, and one I’ve become too accustomed to lately.
I hear Liam scoff from somewhere behind me.
Her gaze narrows as it lands on the cut on my face. “What happened?” she asks softly.
I turn away, unable to bear her pity. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” I reassure her quickly, but something about the look on her face makes me turn and walk away.
My face stings, and I avoid looking in the mirror as I enter the bathroom. Seeing my own reflection might just make my condition even worse than it already is. Liam follows me.
“Let me help you,” he says softly, his voice carrying a hint of care I hadn’t noticed before. I nod, still avoiding my own gaze in the mirror and not looking at him either.
I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength.
There are no plasters in the house, but he wets a towel and moves toward me, his hands trembling slightly as he dabs at the wound on my face.
He cleans the cut with such precision I’m sure he must have done this many times before.
Precise, but he stops a few times to steady his hands.
They’re shaky, and it looks like it hurts him though it shouldn’t… should it?
He squints his eyes, and a desperate, hurting groan leaves his mouth. His hand flies to his forehead and he squeezes and rubs it for a moment before he shakes it off. Almost like it never happened, he goes back to treating my wound, and I’m left staring at him completely dumbstruck.
“Are you okay? Do you have a headache?” I ask, meeting his pained gaze, but he only looks at me for a moment before looking away again.
“I’m fine,” he gets out, forcing a smile that crumbles at the edges.
Is he sick?
He doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s holding something together with frayed threads.
Well now I feel bad for calling him all the way out here when he’s clearly ill.
“They got you pretty good, huh?” he jokes, but there’s no real humour in it. His hands are still unsteady, and I want to reach out, to steady him somehow, but I’m looking at the towel. Staring at its rough edges and the grey that is now stained with a blurred red.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say truthfully, but it comes out more like a mumble. Once the adrenaline wears off, I doubt I’ll be this brave about it.
He starts to say something, hesitates.
“Don’t tell them,” I blurt out, my voice urgent. He knows exactly who I mean by “them” and I can see the internal struggle in his eyes.
His brows knit together. “Adeline—”
“Please.” I meet his eyes, silently begging. He sighs, his resolve crumbling.
“Okay,” he concedes softly, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding.
As he finishes treating my wound, a small, almost teasing smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “At least you look badass.”
And for the briefest moment, despite everything, I find myself chuckling softly.
***
I don’t sleep at all that night.
I lay awake, tossing and turning, while the minutes drag on like a slow pulse in my skull.
I keep replaying the events of that evening in my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes—the knife glinting, blood on my hands, the cold fire of fear in Naomi’s eyes. How is anyone meant to sleep after something like that?
I heard Naomi come in after Liam left. Her voice hushed and mingled with Sam’s in murmurs that occasionally escalate into what sounded like an argument.
So much anger there, sharp enough to cut through my exhaustion, but not sharp enough to pull me out of bed.
Whatever they’re arguing about, it’s not my fight right now.
Morning eventually crawls through the cracks in my blinds, golden light spilling across the floor in muted streaks. It’s almost beautiful. With a groan, I drag myself up, my body heavy.
I’ve been avoiding the mirror, but now I finally allow myself to look. The sight makes me flinch. As expected.
The cut slices from my eyebrow down toward the edge of my nose—a cruel, jagged line marring my skin. It looks worse today, swollen and angry, the bruising around it deepening into shades of dark purple and sickly yellow. My face is pale, almost ghostly, and my eyes are rimmed with deep shadows.
I reach up and touch the wound, as if by feeling it I can confirm it’s real. The girl in the mirror doesn’t flinch, though I wish she would. I wish she would move, break free, and become someone else entirely.
I splash water onto my face, the shock of it jolting me for a moment, but nothing else changes. The girl staring back at me is still a stranger. Someone I wouldn’t recognize on the street.
I need concealer. Naomi probably has some. I’ll ask her later.
***
Brushing through my tangled hair feels like a chore, and I move mechanically, refusing to glance at the mirror again. It’s easier that way—easier to pretend I’m not slowly coming undone.
Downstairs, the house is eerily quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I grab an apple from the counter, biting into it without really tasting it.
I hear Sam’s footsteps approaching, her presence pulling me out of my thoughts. I don’t turn around as she enters. “I didn’t sleep either,” she says softly, her voice carrying an edge of exhaustion that matches my own.
I manage a half-hearted smile. “You were gone a while.”
“I… had to calm down,” she admits after a pause.
I sigh quietly, almost inaudibly, and then finally turn to face her.
“I figured,” I reply, my tone neutral. It’s always the same with her—running off when things get too real.
Sam thinks distance can solve everything, that if she runs far enough, fast enough, the problems will somehow vanish.
But that’s not a luxury I have. I’ve never had the option to flee.
Her gaze lingers on my face, on the cut. I brace myself for the pity, for the concern I don’t want, but she just stares.
“It looks bad, Addie,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Thanks for that reminder, Sam. Although I really don’t need it. How come she’s always doing things I don’t need? But when I actually need her to do something useful, she doesn’t. It’s infuriating. I like to think of myself as a fairly patient person, but there are times when I could just explode.
This is one of those times.
“Then stop looking,” I snap, this time inviting the harshness in. It’s not just about the scar, and she knows that. Sam’s eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even flinch. I wait for her to say something—anything—that shows she understands. But she doesn’t.
With a bitter sigh, I turn away from her and head for the stairs. I’m halfway up when something catches my eye: a sheet of paper, laid neatly on the table by the staircase.