36. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
B lack-painted windows greet me as I step out of the house and down the front steps.
Still in my bed shorts and the Disney sweatshirt I slept in.
As I walk across the land, the morning light hits my legs, and the uncut patches of grass tickle my skin as I turn to take in the damage.
The house looks worse than it did last night.
Blending in with the late hour perfectly helped hide the things that cause my shoulders to slump today.
God, can I go back in time to yesterday and just stay home?
Annabelle had warned me that the house had been trashed on our bumpy and uncomfortable ride home.
I’d worried so much about Bubbles—just Bubbles—that we didn’t get the pizza I’d promised.
We didn’t have time to stop, as it was so hard to relax.
My jittery legs in the car ride put Annabelle, who is usually calm, on edge.
Her dad was the one who’d called while we were at The Funhouse, and apparently, Shane was the one to call him.
Shane had already left when we got home, but Detective Mendoza—Annabelle’s father—was still waiting at my property with half a dozen colleagues.
Led by nerves, I’d dragged Annabelle up the hill after the taxi driver refused to attempt it. I only relaxed slightly to the sound of Bubbles barking her head off. But a deep-rooted anxiety lingered inside me until it forced the words, “Is my brother okay?” out of my mouth.
Had Shane done this? Did he want to get even? I had so many questions running through my mind.
Detective Mendoza had questions of his own about Ambrose because Shane’s face was a messy canvas of purple and yellow bruises, we’d been told. But he’d confirmed that it didn’t look like anyone got inside, nor did it appear that Ambrose was home or that Shane was our artist.
The conversation stayed on them for a little while. Several cops dropped accusations over Shane’s assault, even though Shane himself never dropped a name.
I’d given nothing away when they spoke of his bruises, and feeling conscious of my own, I hid them with my long hair.
Shane texted a little while after we got into the house. Annabelle and Bubbles were asleep by then, both in the den, sharing a sofa, and both snoring.
I answered when Shane kept texting, saying how worried he was.
One text led to another, and he explained that he stopped by to see me last night and ended up scaring off a group of youngsters with spray paint cans.
Then the conversation drifted, and he asked again about my birthday and us celebrating it together.
A sick feeling took me from the den to the kitchen. The need to sit down and gulp a glass of water to ease my dry throat was too hard to resist.
I tried to get out of seeing him by using the truth against him, that he’d hurt me emotionally and physically.
Another text told me he booked a therapy appointment because he didn’t want anyone ever to be hurt again by his insecurities.
Pressure came, and now we’re getting dinner tonight.
It’s probably the bad idea Annabelle thinks it is.
But it’s just dinner, I tell myself to keep the fear down.
It’s just dinner.
Blinking away thoughts of that night, black windows come into view again.
It’s just dinner.
It’s not a night that will lead to his fingers tightening around my throat until I can’t breathe.
I can barely breathe now, air stalling in my lungs as I feel the phantom touch. My gelled nails, courtesy of Annabelle, trace there.
It’s just dinner.
It isn’t him returning here because the doubts that he hasn’t changed are still in my head, along with thoughts of Lucky, who has his own girlfriend he’s hurt.
If last night had played out differently, I wouldn’t have given in to Shane’s messages.
I move back to the porch where I’d left my drink and take a sip of the bubble tea Annabelle picked up in town this morning when she stopped by for the paint stripper. It’s a little sweeter than I usually get, and it goes straight to my head as I re-read Lucky’s texts from last night.
Lucky:
Where have you disappeared to?
Don’t worry about Valaria. It’s not what you think.
I promise.
God, all men must be trained in lying because the look on that woman’s face last night—the pure rage—it’s hard to believe it could be anything else.
And I want nothing to do with that.
Clicking the settings at the top of my phone screen, I hesitate, but I block his number.
It was a one-week fling. A rebound to make me feel better that ended up making me feel awful.
And it’s done.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I glance up at the sound of a bark.
Bubbles lingers in the doorway with her arms around Ambrose’s waist. It almost looks like she’s smiling at me, with her pretty face tilted and her tongue out. I can’t help but smile.
My smile drops when my eyes rise up over dark clothes to see the clown makeup again. I step back, slipping down the steps and twisting my ankle as I create a safe distance between me and Ambrose.
I don’t fail to notice Bubbles shifts from his waist as his hand comes out to reach for me.
Those red lips move, asking silently, You okay?
My head bobs, and I shake off the spilled tea from my hands.
In one of my hoodies, Annabelle squeezes her way around the pair, accidentally brushing against Ambrose.
Wide eyes flick to her, and Ambrose jumps back, his spine and all those fresh scars hitting the solid doorframe.
The look on his face makes me think he’d kill her if he could avoid going back to prison.
“Chill, hon. I don’t carry diseases. I’m checked regularly.”
The look on his face sours a little more, that red smile becoming a sickening grimace over her innocent comments.
She holds her hands up in defense. “Do you wanna help? I think you’d be better on the ladder than your little sis.”
“No, it’s fine, Annabelle. We can manage.” Because I can’t have him too close. “We only have two ladders.” Both of which had been loaned by Nyx, who couldn’t help as he had a busy workday ahead.
Annabelle batting her eyelashes hadn’t worked this time.
“Yeah, two ladders, and you don’t like climbing them. And if you’re really going on that date, which I don’t think you should, you don’t want to smell like paint stripper. He’s probably seen enough strippers in your time apart.”
“Annabelle, really? You know I’m already nerv—” I stop myself.
But not soon enough.
Annabelle’s phone pings, and she pulls it from her pocket after setting one of the ladders in place. “You have my number?” Her eyes snap to Ambrose.
“Oh, a drop,” she announces when another notification pings.
Annabelle stares at Ambrose for a moment, probably testing his sanity, given the clown makeup. And yet she still tells him who the date is with.
“The date is with Shane.”
I can’t prevent my eyes from wandering to Ambrose and peeping up at him through my lashes. Crouched down to her level, the attention he gives Bubbles is heartwarming, but the sinister smile on his red lips is anything but supportive. It’s enough to snap my head away.
Another buzz on Annabelle’s phone rings in my ears. The quiet sound is too noticeable—too loud.
“Yeah, I agree.”
“With what?” I ask her, my tone snappy.
“Your brother thinks it’s a stupid fucking idea. His words.”
Annabelle’s attention shifts from me to Ambrose, with zero signs of fear in her demeanor as she stands with her hands on her hips. “You’re not afraid of heights, right?”
He shrugs, confirming he isn’t because he isn’t actually afraid of anything outside of bright lights. I’ve seen how he cringes each time he walks through the illuminated house.
“But I’m not helping so she can run back to that loser. So, if neither of you can get up the ladders, these words are staying on the wall.”
I stay in my spot, mouth hanging open in disbelief as Annabelle reads his latest message.
That cruel smile comes back again, and he steps inside with Bubbles following.
The words THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE stare back at me as I stare in the direction of the house. The red looks so much like blood. So much like the stains on the hallway carpet upstairs that Ambrose hasn’t pulled up.
“I can’t believe him.” Annabelle sighs. “I really thought he was gonna help.”
“No, he’d rather ridicule my love life. It’s not even his business.” I shake my head.
Beneath the baggy material of my hoodie, Annabelle’s shoulders slump. “Maybe he’s just looking out for you.”
Taking a moment and a deep breath, I look away from my best friend.
“You’re more deluded than I am,” I say, taking one sip of tea and a mouthful of bobas before placing down my cup and nervously setting up the other ladder.
Another buzz, this time, my phone.
“If that’s Unlucky again, tell him to shove off.”
“It’s not, he’s blocked.”
“Is it your brother transporting little hate notes from the house?”
“No, surprisingly.”
“So, it’s your dickhead ex then. God, I think he’s the worst option.”
“I doubt it.” My eyes move into the house.
“Dollie, I get why you’re mad, but?—”
“Do not. You’re my friend.”
“And since when does that make me Ambrose’s enemy?”
Looking away, I fight the tears in my eyes to stay put.
“He’s trying to be your friend, Dollie. He got you a dog. The kind you always wanted.”
“I love Bubbles, but she doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“I thought you said it was a psychotic break. Doesn’t that excuse what he did?”
“I’m not talking about my parents.”
“The threat?”
“Yes, the threat. It wasn’t a simple I won’t talk to you for the next ten years.
It was if you ever try to contact me again, I’ll slit—” Sadness catches up, and I need a minute.
“He said he’d slit my throat like he did Mom’s.
” My lip trembles as I talk. “I wrote so many letters. Only one he ever responded to. I missed him, and I needed him, and not only was he not there, but he wanted to…” I stop there, trailing off.
A sigh comes from Annabelle’s direction.
“Do you not believe me?”