Chapter 15 Clara
Clara
Sunday dawns gray and stormy, thunder jolting me awake, sweat coating my skin.
Another nightmare. I thought I’d banished them, that the sea and a plan had washed the terror away. But the longer I’m back, the more my anxiety gnaws at me.
Killing a man didn’t help.
I can’t figure out whether avoiding that truth or forcing myself to sit with it will get me through this. I asked Falk, and he had no recommendations, only saying that after you kill enough people, you compartmentalize it. So, no help from that quarter.
Out of obvious solutions, I crawl from the pile of blankets and into the shower, giving myself until I’m clean to cry.
Is it possible to mourn the death of someone you hated? Is that healthy or maladaptive?
I have to assume Smith had family, friends, somebody somewhere who will always wonder what happened to him. Even if he didn’t, his life was still cut short. Someone should mourn that, shouldn’t they?
Even if it’s the person who killed him?
I’ve replayed those two moments over and over again, both my shooting him and his trying to shoot me.
It’s clear that was his intention. If Jansen hadn’t been there, I’d be dead right now. Does that make what I did better? In one way, it was kill or be killed. But in another, he didn’t stand a chance. No way to fight back. No guardian angel to fall from the sky to keep his death from my hands.
My mind a mess, I get out of the shower and put on one of the stuffy outfits that came with the room, wondering how I can get to Trips’ dad. I’ve been summoned, but I’ve never forced a meeting, and I don’t even know how I would go about it.
I heard Trips’ strangled cries for hours last night. He’s breaking, and if Trips’ dad wants a baby as badly as he seems to, he needs to set Trips free. But that means I have to convince the devil that it’s time.
I’m not sure I’m up for it.
Like every other morning this week, there’s a knock on my door, and I open it to find another nameless guard there. “You’re free to explore the estate today, as long as you’re accompanied. You have a meeting with the wedding planner at one, and a dress fitting at three,” he says.
“And if I wanted to see Mr. Westerhouse?” I ask.
“Father or one of his sons?”
“Father,” I clarify, weirded out once again that Trips shares his name with his monster of a father.
“I’ll put in a request,” he says, pulling out his cellphone.
I find my way to the kitchen, where Mary smiles, her eyes bright when she sees I’m still free to roam the house. “Breakfast, my dear?”
“Please,” I say, pulling a stool up to the counter, ignoring who knows how many fancier places to eat, just like I have the rest of the week.
What Trips’ dad has on Mary is a question without an answer. She’s sweet, capable, and genuine in a way that I didn’t know anyone in this house could be.
As I crunch on some bacon, I watch the storm out the window, white-capped waves barely visible through the sheets of rain, the sky still dark.
The last of the leaves are caught in the tumult, and I do some quick calculations.
“Halloween was last week, wasn’t it?” I ask as Mary pours me another coffee, both of us pretending we didn’t see her use decaf grounds for it.
“Yes. Pity we don’t get any trick-or-treaters all the way back here. But we always send candy to the gate, just in case.”
My heart aches, remembering the autumn runs with RJ, the crisp air pressing against too warm skin, while I grew ever closer to the quietest of my loves. “I guess that means winter is just around the corner,” I say, an uncontrolled shiver rolling through my body at the thought of snow.
“Chilly this morning?” The hair on the back of my neck raises at the casual question from Trips’ brother, the urge to run away swelling as I tap against my thigh, unable to stay completely composed. He’s seen me naked. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable. And he liked it.
I take a sip of the coffee, Mary picking up on the tension between me and Trevor. “Clara dear, I had something I wanted to show you,” she says, coming to my rescue, moving across the room.
“Oh, Mary, I’m certain it can wait. I want to get to know my new sister.”
“She’s not your sister. Not yet, at least,” she replies.
I push my stool away from the counter, but Trevor jams his foot behind it to keep it from sliding far, pinning me there.
One of his hands grips my shoulder, his thumb digging in, while his other hand rests on my thigh, much too high for a stranger, let alone for his future sister-in-law.
“Aww, don’t be like that,” he says, leaning in close enough for his breath to tickle the hair by my ear.
He inches his hand higher, and I snatch his wrist, digging my fingers into the tendons there, his sharp inhale a balm against the edge of control I’ve been riding for the last two weeks.
I put on a sweet smile, turning to him, his face a forced mask of ease as he digs his thumb deeper into my shoulder, hoping to get me to let him go.
Luckily, it’s my good shoulder, and I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse pain than what he’s dealing.
“What did you want, Trevor?” I ask, my voice saccharine.
“We still haven’t had a chance for that swim,” he says, his teeth gritted.
“I’m not in the mood,” I answer, shifting my hold just enough for my nails to cut him.
Something dark and furious shines in his eyes, a man unused to anyone telling him no besides his hellish father. Before he can say anything else, though, a feminine throat clearing draws both of our attention to the doorway.
Trips’ stepmom, Mattie’s mom Jessica, stands there, her smile gentle but her eyes hard as she quickly parses what she sees. “Clara, exactly who I was looking for. I have some questions about the wedding that I’d like to address before the planner gets here,” she says.
“Of course,” I say, waiting for Trevor to unhand me.
He does the same, but in the end, he lets me go before I release him, and it feels like a win. The first one in a while.
Grabbing my cup of decaf, I follow this cipher of a woman out of the room, curious about her saving me. We say nothing as she winds through the hallways, much of it still a jumbled mess to me, but building my map in my mind like Jansen and RJ taught me.
The main floor comprises public rooms; the second floor mostly private rooms for the family.
On the third floor are guest rooms, and apparently where they installed locks on the outsides of a handful of doors, like the luxury prison this place has turned out to be.
The greenhouse is one floor higher, while the basement is half underground and half walkout, with exercise rooms—one for general fitness, a full basketball court, and a dedicated space for fencing—as well as the pool, a theater room, and a game room.
She leads me to the gallery, an odd choice, but a room I’ve needed to spend more time in if this plan stands a chance of working out. I’ve got to scope it out. Or at least look like I am.
Once there, she takes a seat on a bench facing a large piece with huge colorful flowers, and I wish Walker were here to tell me all about the artist, time period, and color theory behind the piece. I miss him.
Instead, I’m stuck with Jessica surveying me, ignoring the probable masterpiece across from us. “No audio in this room right now, just cameras,” she says, a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I match her face, able to pretend as well as she can. “Good to know.”
“Why did you come back?” she asks, rubbing the outside of her knee like a muscle there is sore.
A rumble of thunder shakes the house, the lights flickering for a moment.
We both hold our breath, but the power stays on.
“We have a backup generator if we lose power,” she adds, as if I’m scared of the dark.
Maybe she is. Either way, I know about the generator—it killed the first version of the plan, as we can’t just cut the power and disappear.
I’m not looking forward to staying here until the dust settles. But I’m prepared for it.
I think about my answer to her initial question.
Jessica wasn’t on Trips’ list of allies.
But he told me that his past makes it hard to judge some people, Jessica in particular.
So far, she’s shown a desire to keep her daughter safe, and a willingness to help both me and Trips however she can.
It also sounded like she tried to warn Olivia against marrying Trevor.
I don’t trust her; I can’t, as I’m fairly certain she’s playing her own hand while Trips and I scramble to win ours. But she isn’t my enemy either. “We came back because this is where we need to be.”
Her strawberry blonde hair glints as she tilts her chin, trying to read me the same way I’ve learned to read others. It’s an inspection born of violence and necessity, as familiar as the way I lock my jaw when a palm flies toward my face or the way my leg seizes up when I run too fast for too long.
“I’ve watched you two. I feel the need to warn you that my husband doesn’t much like being toyed with. And the second you think you’ve won, he’ll make one last move, and at best, you have a draw.”
“And at worst?”
She lifts her chin, like arrogance is armor. “At worst, you’ll get to heal from a broken leg while pregnant, even when you were sure you held the trump card.”
Her voice catches, and I turn away, not wanting to see her pain. Understanding the stiff way she moved, the way she rubbed her leg, the way the storm must have amplified whatever damage she’d sustained while trying to keep her daughter safe.
“You’ve done right by your daughter,” I say instead, staring at the Rubens hung in a corner of the gallery, such a small piece to have caused so much strife for us.
“But not by the rest of you,” she whispers.
I debate once again how much I can trust this woman. “We’re adults. At a certain point, it’s up to us to protect ourselves.”
“Barely adults.”
“When was the last time Archie was a child?”
My question is answered with silence. He hasn’t been a child for years. Probably since the woman beside me had to choose between her stepson and her unborn daughter.
She stands, wiping her hands against her slacks. “If anyone asked, we discussed flowers for the reception.”
“No roses or lilies,” I announce, unable to keep the unnecessary answer from my lips. Who cares what flowers are at my sham wedding? I shouldn’t. But I don’t want those. Not in my hand as I walk toward disaster. They’d be a death omen for the future.
“That doesn’t leave much in the dead of winter,” she replies.
“No flowers at all,” I say, suddenly knowing what I want. This wedding should set us free. “Feathers. I want feathers. Red and dark gray,” I say, remembering that gorgeous dress I’d tried on before everything totally fell apart. A dress I’d much rather wear than something white and virginal.
This is a battle, and I should dress for the blood of my enemies. And if I can’t wear that dress, a bloody bouquet made of the promise of wings will have to be enough.