85. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
S hane is a lying prick.
I’m sure that’s what Bubbles is saying in dog language, too. Twisting the doorknob, I step into the bathroom doorway and flood the place with light.
My body tenses, and my hands ball into fists, each nail leaving little half-moon injuries against my palm.
Silent shoes move sneakily across the kitchen, stalling when my eyes dare him to move.
I’m not a violent person, but there’s a need inside me that’s hard to fight. The voice in my head tells me not to put my hands on him because I’ll lose Dollie again.
I spin back to her, all other senses, including my balled fists, still telling me to break his fucking neck.
Bubbles rushes through the door, almost pushing me over. Dollie’s hand stretches out, asking me to choose her.
There’s no other choice.
I take the first step in, a giant one. Three more land me at her side, that knee joint popping on the tiles. The pain doesn’t penetrate my anger.
Bubbles crouches at her other side, her front legs over Dollie’s. The dog’s pearly whites are on display as she snarls at the door.
I pull her in, fingers combing through cake crumbs and frosting in her wet hair.
“Don’t touch me,” she croaks.
One hand massaging her throat. There are no bruises there, but something hurts her. Her other hand flattens to my chest, both of them bruised.
“I’m full of germs. In my hair. My hair is full of germs.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. Come to me.” I pull her in, my fingers weaving back through her hair, cradling her head as she rests it on my shoulder.
She winces, tensing up as I touch certain parts of her.
“I’m hurt.”
“I’ll be careful not to move you. Where are you hurt?”
“My stomach. My throat.”
Her whole-body trembles in my arms. I rock her gently. Bubbles is still close. Dollie’s fingers move to her, twirling in her soft hair.
“What did he do? How did he get in?”
“It was raining.” She swallows, and her hand moves back to her throat. “I knew you were due home, so I unlocked the door. You really shouldn’t have your face on mine.” Even as she says that, her arm is locked around my waist in a death grip. “I’m dirty.”
Her concern for me while she’s so vulnerable and hurt, leads my lips to her cheek. Three gentle kisses press into her face, careful to avoid causing more pain, but my hand on her waist does something to her that curls her in on herself.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly dial 911.
“We need an Ambulance. La’Darragh Manor—The Vice Orphanage, Villa Row, Carbonado Valley.” I don’t wait for the operator to reply. Hanging up, I drop the phone back into my front pocket.
Dollie’s fingers move on my back, tickling my skin as my hoodie whispers against me.
“I tried to stay calm. So, he’d leave.” Her voice is a tiny whisper. “Your cake was almost done. He shoved my face in it. Then he dragged me in here and put my head in the toilet.”
I reel back in shock, but don’t pull away from her.
“He flushed, and then he kicked me and told me to stay in here with our dead parents.”
I’m shaking, all the anger I feel getting too hard to keep inside. I glance at the door, then back at her. “Where did he kick you?”
It takes her a second to roll up her hoodie, revealing a bruise that almost covers her entire stomach. The purple looks so much brighter next to the yellow stoma cover.
My knuckles trace the outskirts. My jaw ticks, triggering an irritating muscle twitch nearby.
“He thinks I did it. Mom and Dad. He says I’ve tried to hurt him in the past, too.”
A bitter part of me thinks it’s a shame she didn’t succeed.
My eyes flit to the door again.
“Do you think he’s gone?”
“He’d better fucking not be.” I squeeze her that little bit tighter for a few quick seconds, then create a small distance between us. “Will you be okay here if I go check?”
Both of her hands make it to my shoulders, gripping my clothes and skin. “If you hurt him, I’ll lose you.”
“I promise that won’t happen. Promise me you’ll be okay.”