Chapter 8 #2
Helia: I’m not going to pretend not to know what you’re talking about. I missed you when you left. A lot. But it made me sad, not angry. Now that you’re back, I can either be happy about it or mad that you were gone for so long. I choose to be happy
Monk: You’re a better person than I am
Helia: This is getting deep for an early morning text
Monk: This fucking castle inspires maudlinism
Helia: Not a word, but it should be (laughing emoji). So do you want company?
He considered it. It would be nice to have her with him, to have the light she carried inside her as he stepped back into the darkness of his past. But he had no idea what he’d find, and he wouldn’t risk subjecting her to any of Roger’s depravities.
Not that she’d talk—he knew her better than that—but she didn’t need any more insight into his childhood.
Monk: Not today, but maybe dinner tonight?
The offer both surprised him and didn’t. He hadn’t asked a woman out in ages. Well, truthfully, ever. Not that he hadn’t gone out with women or dated them, but on the rare occasions he did, the woman initiated it.
But this wasn’t a date. It was two friends grabbing a meal together.
Helia: Only if you take me to Guichos. They have the best al pastor tacos. It’s a food truck, but they set up a tent with a heater, and you can bring your own beer
He chuckled. Leave it to Helia to ask to be taken to a food truck for tacos and beer.
Monk: Deal. I’ll pick you up at five
Helia: I’ll walk over. I have a ton of paperwork to do, I’ll want to stretch my legs
Monk: Fine, but call or text if you change your mind and I’ll come get you
Helia: Be kind to yourself today
Five simple words that pulled the breath from his lungs. A reminder he needed to hear.
Monk: I will…and thank you
She ended the conversation with a heart emoji, and he shoved his phone into his jeans pocket as he rose.
Another creak sounded from the second floor, and he cocked his head.
When nothing else shifted, he let it go and grabbed his bag.
He’d once known every little squeak and scrape of the castle, but seventeen years aged a building.
Heading to the south side of the castle, he paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor.
Gripping his bag tighter than its weight called for, he took the first step.
Without giving himself time to think, he climbed steadily to the third floor and walked to his old room, hoping Roger hadn’t renovated it to some other use.
He set his hand on the closed door, the thick wood plank with an aged bronze fixture cold beneath his touch.
Nudging it open, he kept moving, as if it might keep the memories at bay.
He didn’t harbor any illusions he’d outrun them, but maybe he could stay far enough ahead that only wisps and pieces filtered into his mind until he felt strong enough to face them head-on.
Striding into the room, he noted it hadn’t changed much since he’d left.
The pictures on the curved plaster walls were now Italian landscapes rather than posters, and a tapestry graced the space behind the headboard.
Roger had left the custom armoire but traded the bed out for a dark, gothic four-poster king one, and a thick Persian carpet with deep red and brown tones covered much of the wood floor.
Turning to his right, he entered the bathroom.
Again, mostly untouched, though updated.
Vaguely, he noted the marble floors and shower, the intricate tile work on the walls, the expensive fixtures.
A far cry from the subway tiles and simple shower he’d had, but in a way, he was glad it wasn’t the same.
Glad it wasn’t one more memory pulling him back to that time.
As the water slid down his body, some of his anxiety washed away with it. By the time he stepped out fifteen minutes later, he decided that the room was different enough that he could try sleeping there. And after shaving and dressing, the rest of the castle didn’t seem so daunting.
Leaving his bath kit on the counter and his bag on the bed, he made his way to the corridor that ran along the front section of the castle with views down into the courtyard.
Worried that his bravado might fail him, he didn’t stop at any of the rooms. When he reached the north side of the castle, he jogged down to the second floor, passed through another hallway, then stepped into his father’s room.
Pausing in the doorway, he scanned the space.
The cleaners had obviously been in since his father’s death, and the bed was freshly made.
Through an open door, he glimpsed the bathroom counter and his father’s personal effects—his shaving cream, toothbrush, and a few other items—laid out in a neat row.
Crossing the room, he entered the enormous walk-in closet.
The original castle had twenty-four bedrooms. By the time Monk left, Roger had converted seven of those into either bathrooms or closets.
Now, unless he’d done more renovation, which wouldn’t surprise Monk as his father was a perennially dissatisfied sort of person, it hosted seventeen bedrooms, each with an en suite bath.
And many with closets the size of an average living room.
Standing in one such closet, he took in the tailor-made suits lining one wall, the rack of Italian shoes, and the polished wood cabinets that held who-knew-what.
Turning in a slow circle, his skin vibrated with an awareness that meant only one thing. “Okay, Roger,” he said on an exhale. “What the hell will I find here?”