Chapter 6 Reverie #4
Sparing one last glance over my shoulder to ensure he’s not lurking behind me, I slip out the sliding door with little notice from the people in the dining room. As I gun for the pool house, though, several eyes flick my way from the hot tub.
None of them are Dread, and none of the girls sport bloody necks. That’s all that matters to me.
No one stops me as I slink through the shadows. The freezing night air slithers beneath my jacket and nips at my skin, but the adrenaline pounding through my system eases the discomfort.
When I reach the door on the back end of the smaller house, I don’t hesitate to slink inside, instantly greeted by warm air. I quietly shut the door behind me and exhale a relieved breath as I glance around.
The living area is huge, the color scheme identical to the main house. To my left, a bartop table sits below a large server window that offers a direct view into the kitchen. Next to it is a dark, uninviting hallway, shadows creeping out from the depths.
Open windows line the other three walls—behind me, to my right, and straight ahead—at least ten of them total, with the blinds pulled up to reveal the pool right outside. If I turn around, I can clearly see the other students partying in the hot tub from the window beside the door.
I take a single step when a distinct, low noise freezes my muscles for the hundredth time.
It’s coming from hidden speakers throughout the room, but the source is a TV mounted on the wall straight ahead.
When I slowly slide my gaze to the screen, the hair on the back of my neck stands, and my blood runs cold.
“I must ask, what do you truly think about these accusations against your husband, Mrs. D’Amour? I mean, it can’t be easy hearing he’s being accused of such heinous crimes.”
I recognize the man’s voice instantly. Connor Boredman.
At the time, he was a young talk show host, eager to carve out his place in the world through Lionel.
And he was smart to do so. His ratings skyrocketed, and he became one of the most famous hosts after successfully conducting the first and only interview of the entire D’Amour family following Lionel’s arrest.
After all, the world regarded the Locksmith as a modern-day Ted Bundy.
So, when an eight-year-old boy claimed Lionel D’Amour was a prolific serial killer, his trial and the case of Katherine Sharpe became an international sensation.
We couldn’t take a single step without a reporter shoving a microphone in our faces.
Regina embraced the attention and dragged me to so many interviews, my reflection in a camera lens became as familiar as in a mirror.
Therefore, when the jail granted Connor special permission to interview Lionel alongside us, it took the world by storm.
It also sealed the public’s opinion of my father, and subsequently of the little boy who they believed falsely accused Lionel of murdering his mother.
Now, that little boy is all grown up, very fucking angry, and forcing me to watch the interview that destroyed what was left of him after losing his mom.
“Well, I’d say they’re utterly baseless lies!” Regina answers before huffing an affronted breath. “I don’t want to speak ill of a grieving little boy, but my goodness, how his atrocious claims have completely destroyed our lives!”
“Oh, darling, don’t get too worked up now,” Lionel interjects, drawing out his words in a bashful—but pleased—manner.
Darling.
The endearment Lionel called my mom throughout that entire interview, and boy, did the media fucking eat it up. Article after article worshipped my father for the way he loved his darling wife.
It makes me sick hearing it now, which is exactly why I’ve heard it nearly every goddamn day for the past four years.
“Oh, Lionel, it’s just so upsetting.” Regina places a hand over her heart, the other atop Lionel’s, her face twisting with heartbreak.
“Our family has been ripped apart by all this nonsense. And—and—” She covers her mouth just as a sob breaks free, prompting Lionel to soothingly shush her as he crooks his finger beneath her chin. “We just want you home.”
He catches her tear with his thumb, and murmurs, “Don't cry, my darling.”
It was that interaction that ripped hearts out, only for the public to turn to Dread and demand to know why he'd put a hole in their chests.
My mother whispers she's okay and dabs a napkin at the corner of her eye, daintily sniffling while my father takes hold of her other hand, squeezing it tight and offering whispered assurances. Meanwhile, I sit on the other side of him, my feet swinging idly and my gaze glued to my plaid skirt.
It’s clear I’m uncomfortable, but it’s easy to assume I just don’t like the spotlight, considering it's how I always looked in interviews—which was the exact opposite of both my parents.
Regina possessed a natural, ethereal beauty that gained her just as much devotion as it did vitriol.
She never wore makeup, and trash magazines loved to publish article after article accusing her of Botox and plastic surgery, as if that’s anything to be ashamed about even if it were true.
Her light blonde hair fell around her dainty shoulders in natural waves, and her wide, full lips consumed her entire face when she smiled, not to mention her baby blue doe eyes.
However, what she was most known for was her sharp jawline and even sharper tongue, quick to defend her husband with little reserve for whose face she screamed in.
Where Regina was fiery, Lionel was calm and charming. With his thick black hair peppered with silver at the temples, unusual copper brown eyes, a crooked grin, and charismatic personality, women flooded our mailbox with handwritten love letters, having no regard for his wife.
They were beloved.
But I couldn’t understand what the world saw in them that I couldn’t. I remember being so conflicted, loving my parents so much because they were all I’d ever known—all I had—yet being absolutely terrified of them, too.
It was hard to compute when, most days, they were normal.
We acted like any other family. Ate breakfast and dinner at the table together every day.
Asked me about school and helped me with my homework.
Took me to amusement and water parks, zoos, and other fun places.
Spoiled me rotten and gave me whatever I asked for.
Except… there’d be moments I’d look at my father and see a glimpse of the face I saw when I was six—evil.
Just a flash, there and gone in the blink of an eye.
I’d look at my mom and feel this uneasy, ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach, afflicted with the knowledge her own husband was a danger to her—yet feeling like even after she got better, she was still a danger to me.
I couldn't escape the feeling of her hand on the back of my head, but I still felt this urgent need to protect her from the monster who saved my life.
“What about you, sweet Charlotte? Surely, it must be hard to see your daddy going through this.”
I lift my stare to Connor and offer a timid, wobbly smile. My incisors on either side of my front two teeth are stubs, the adult ones having only just started growing in.
“It’s hard,” I agree quietly. “My dad would never hurt anyone.”
I grimace, knowing it was a lie both then and now but having no choice but to tell it.
A flash out of the corner of my eye startles me and has my heart jumping to my throat before I process what it is.
As the interview continues, our voices fade into the background, and I watch as several people approach the pool house. My heart drops, and the blood drains from my face. Unease, fear, and adrenaline flood my bloodstream all at once, sending me into a panic.
I quickly turn and lock the door behind me, my heart now pounding against my rib cage, just as desperate to escape.
Four girls step up to the windows on either side of the door, two at each. My mouth drops, and I step back in shock as they press into the glass, pinning me with dead, soulless eyes.
For several seconds, I can only stare at them, speechless and utterly disturbed by their white shirts, bloody necks, and expressionless faces.
Almost dazed, I slowly spin, taking in the dozen or so girls standing around the pool house, all of them pressed against every window and dressed exactly the same, save for the different dates written across their chests.
I fight back the tears threatening to well while I just stand there, completely paralyzed, watching them watch me with their blank, unmoving faces.
What… the fuck… is going on?
Tremors build in my extremities, and adrenaline steadily rises. I don’t know what the fuck to do right now. Obviously, I could leave, but the thought of going outside with all of them out there is even more terrifying.
But there could be a back door somewhere.
It takes a few extra seconds for my brain to convince my bones to unlock.
Once they do, I’m gunning down the hallway, passing the kitchen and several closed doors.
It’s dark as shit, and I’m forced to pause and scramble for my phone.
I switch on my flashlight, but I stop short.
I’ve already reached the end of the hallway.
In front of me are double doors, already slid open to reveal laundry machines.
Chest heaving, I swing my flashlight around, confirming what I already know.
There’s no other exit.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Cold sweat blooms across my back, and anxiety viciously claws at my stomach as I consider what else to do. My only other option is to hide out in one of the rooms and hope they eventually get bored and leave.
I turn to the closest door, only to find it locked. Confused and panicky, I jiggle the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.
“What the fuck?” I whisper beneath my breath.
I try the next door, and the next, finding both of them locked as well. There’s one door left, and when it swings open with ease, it immediately sets me on edge. Every muscle in my body tenses as I cautiously step into the room.
Directly ahead is a large window with the blinds turned outward, inviting moonlight to peek through and allowing me to see a faint outline of a bed right below it.
Hesitantly, I flip on the light, only to scream, my heart flying into my throat as I stumble backward and fall flat on my ass.
Dread sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows propped on his spread knees as he casually twiddles a knife, crimson trailing down the blade and over his hand before dripping onto the pale wooden floors.
My hand flies over my chest, my heart pounding violently against my rib cage.
“What the fuck?!” I shout breathlessly.
A wicked smile teases one corner of his lips, though his frosty eyes hold no warmth.
“Well, hello, darling.”