Chapter 5 Lena
LENA
The house is on fire. I cough as smoke fills my lungs. Panicked, I crawl out of bed and head for the door, keeping my body as close to the ground as possible. Smoke clogs the air above me, thick and gray and so, so hot.
It makes my eyes sting. I blink away tears as I feel my way across the room, searching for the door.
Except, when I reach the wall, the door is gone.
I feel along the baseboard, back and forth, over and over, but no, there’s nothing.
Another cough wracks my body. I lie flat, trying to breathe slowly, carefully. Each pull of oxygen burns. Along with the knowledge that if I don’t get out of this room very soon, I’m going to burn too.
Wiping away more tears, I focus on the wall in front of me. The air is darker, heavier now. It’s getting harder and harder to see. I reach out one hand, run it quickly along the wall, praying over and over and over that this time I’ll find the door.
Except, I’m not in the house anymore. My room at Aunt Mabel’s is gone.
Still lying chest-down on the ground, I rapid-fire blink, my head spinning as I take in the furniture around me.
A few pieces from IKEA, all past their use-by date.
My favorite sweater draped over the back of a chair. A black violin case on the ground.
I’m in my apartment. It’s still night and freezing. After the heat of the fire, the cold feels extreme on my exposed skin. I start shivering, long, body-wracking shivers that make my teeth chatter so hard I worry they’re going to crack.
How can I be so cold, so fast? I push myself into a sitting position and the reason becomes obvious. I’m wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and underwear.
I start to stand and just as quickly drop back down to my ass. A shadow steps out of the darkness in front of me. It looms large and seems to suck all the air from the apartment.
I’m so cold now I feel frozen to the floor. The shadow steps closer, closer, and solidifies into a man. It’s harder to breathe now than when I was suffocating in the smoke.
The stranger is dressed entirely in black, a hood pulled tight around his face. No matter how close he gets, I can’t see his features. He’s practically on top of me when he raises one arm and levels a gun at my head. The sound of him cocking it reverberates in my apartment.
I feel my scream before I hear it, the ferocity of it tearing me apart from the inside out. My back is against the kitchen island. I’ve got nowhere to go, no way to escape.
The man presses the muzzle against my forehead. His hand is perfectly steady. My teeth are clattering inside my skull.
“Shhhh,” he says. “It will all be over soon.”
Tears pour down my face. I can’t help but watch as he squeezes the trigger, so very, very gently.
“Shhhh, it’ll all be over soon.”
I’m screaming, screaming so loud my throat hurts, and suddenly…
I’m not on the floor of my apartment. There’s no gunman.
I’m in a bed, in another room, in another house.
It’s dark, still night. Hot tears stream down my face.
The trembling has turned into full-body shakes, like a sailboat caught by a tsunami, my limbs so numb they feel nonexistent.
I barely have a chance to figure out where my dream has dumped me when warmth wraps around me. Solid, human warmth. Powerful arms hold me, the chest I’m cradled against rocks me in a slow, gentle sway.
The sense of safety is…profound. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. And such a stark contrast to the fear that’s been riding me hard all night.
The person holding me must have a face, even if it’s one my subconscious has dreamed up.
I don’t look up. Cocooned in strong limbs and soft covers, I don’t want to burst this bubble.
In my real life, there is no one who can hold me like this, who can comfort me like this.
There hasn’t been since the Haywoods died.
Aunt Mable and I weren’t close enough for this kind of comforting embrace.
I don’t want to see this figment of my imagination, this imaginary person who will vanish come daylight.
Just someone else I’ll have to let go. That is more reality than I can handle right now.
So, in the blind, ignorant safety of sleep, I let go.
I let the feelings of loss I’ve been holding back overwhelm me, silently sobbing into the night.
I don’t know how long I cry or how my fingernails come to be digging into a heavily muscled back, but I’m at the stage where I don’t care.
In the span of twelve hours my entire world has exploded.
I’ve lost everything that meant anything to me.
If now isn’t the time to take comfort in some delusional dream, I don’t know when is.
The clock on the bedside table reads 1:07 PM. Sun streams through a gap in the curtains, warming my feet where they’re snuggled beneath the covers.
It takes a second for my brain to play catch up. Disorientation is quickly replaced by disbelief, quickly stomped on by pain.
What the hell happened last night?
The details start as a slow trickle—an argument on the street, passing out in the back seat of a car, a woman bandaging my side…
My side. I rip away the covers and check, nausea building when I see it’s real. A white bandage covers several inches of my side. Beneath it, I feel the skin pulled tight, a burning sensation where the gunshot must be.
I was shot.
Holy fuck.
The man in my apartment. The shooter outside. The fire. Aunt Mable.
Rem.
The trickle of details becomes a deluge. I jump out of bed, the covers too hot and heavy.
My feet hit soft carpet and I catch a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror.
My hair is a mess, a dark nest knotted on the top and sides of my head.
Mascara is streaked black under my eyes and I’m wearing an oversized pink sweatshirt I don’t recognize.
Lifting it quickly, I check underneath. I’m wearing underwear—mine, thank God—but that’s it on my lower half.
No pants, no socks, no shoes. Nothing to wear when running away.
My stomach protests at the thought of leaving. Despite everything going on, I’m hungry. I can’t remember the last time I ate. It has to be at least twenty-four hours ago. That math alone makes my stomach growl louder, the tail end of which is drowned out by a knock at the door.
“Lena?” The door opens a crack and a woman’s head pops through. I vaguely remember Rem calling her Bianca. “You’re awake.”
“Yup.” I’m not clear on the etiquette for greeting a stranger in their own home after they bandage your gunshot wound, lend you their clothes, and let you sleep in their spare bed. I guess I need to say: “Thank you. For, um, last night.”
Bianca smiles and, standing on the opposite side of the bed from me, sets a tray of food on the mattress. The smell of coffee hits and I start salivating. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It comes with the territory, and I’ve definitely seen worse. How are you feeling?”
The first part of her comment is a minefield I don’t have the energy to navigate, so I stick to answering the question. “Sore. Tired. Confused. And, um, hungry.”
“I’m not sure how much I can help with the first three, but I have you covered on the last one.
” She pushes the tray in my direction. “I’m not sure what you like and it’s more lunchtime than breakfast, so I thought brunch would be a safe bet.
There’s a little something of everything.
You need to replenish after the night you’ve had. ”
She’s brought me a feast. Fruit, toast, jam, pastries, bacon, what looks like quiche, juice, and a steaming cup of coffee. It’s so beautiful I want to cry, but I hesitate just as I’m reaching for the much-needed caffeine.
As nice as Bianca’s been to me, she’s obviously loyal to Rem.
She’s helping me because he told her to.
But I have no idea what kind of “help” I’m getting.
Nothing about Rem, last night, or waking up in this house makes sense.
How can I trust that the food isn’t drugged?
I could end up knocked out and right back in that bed, or worse…
As if she knows what I’m thinking, Bianca spoons out a bit of coffee, drinking it with a tiny slurp.
“It’s on the hot side, but very good. If I do say so myself.
” Her smile is warm, not at all judgey, like I haven’t just silently insinuated that she’s trying to poison me.
“This is just a classic quiche Lorraine,” she continues, taking a forkful of the dish in question.
“The perfect combination of egg, onion, cheese, bacon. And the rest is exactly what it looks like, gifts from the brunch gods. None tampered with, I promise.”
She demonstrates with tiny bites of each dish on the plate, then lifts a clean fork from the tray and holds it up for me.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m really sorry.” The coffee is hot, but the embarrassment on my cheeks burns hotter. “I don’t mean to insult you, after everything you’ve done. It’s just…”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I shove a forkful of quiche into my mouth so I don’t have to. My hum of delight is involuntary. Bianca’s right, it is perfect.
“Don’t apologize. None of this can be easy for you.
” Bianca’s smile drops a fraction, her tone becoming more serious.
“I can’t say what’s going to happen when you leave here.
Johnny hasn’t said much, and Rem’s never explained himself to me once in the three years I’ve known him.
He doesn’t have to. But what I can say is that he brought you here and asked me to give you a comfortable place to rest and get you well fed, two things I’m always happy to do.
So please know that there’s nothing in your meal except the ingredients that should be there, including proper French butter, thank you very much, and my own brand of baking magic.
Eat as much as you’re able and know that, in this house, seconds are always allowed. Okay?”