35. Petra
PETRA
Does the chauffeur know what just happened? I wonder when the voluptuous violin opening of a Madonna song fills up the car on my way back home. But if he has any inkling of the mess I am in, Ron doesn’t show it as he expertly maneuvers the car through the stormy streets.
“Tsk, tsk, you should have just called me,” he had said in a doleful tone when I slid into the backseat and implored him to start driving. “I’ve got an umbrella and everything.”
“Do you want to stop by a pharmacy, Miss Valentine?” he says presently, while I stare out of the window, glassy-eyed, and occasionally sniffle into my sleeve. “We can pick up something quick if you’re catching a cold.”
“No thanks, I just want to go home, get into the bathtub, and never come out.” I sigh and set my head back, trying to settle my wobbling nerves and queasy stomach.
In a couple more minutes, I am dropped home with a, “I’ll check up on you later, Miss!
” from good ol’ Ron, who drives away without waiting for a response.
My clothes seem plastered to my skin as I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking from the cold and the remnants of adrenaline.
When I push open the door, there’s a familiar quiet draped over everything: the antique pottery huddled over at one corner of the entryway, the plush carpets smothering my lonesome footsteps, the stately piano in the foyer that nobody has the time or inclination to play.
Presently, Mom and Dad are away at some conference in Austin, so here I am again, solitary specter of La Maison Valentine.
I kick off my wet shoes and quickly discard my drenched clothes in a soggy heap by the door.
I have only one goal in mind: a bath in scalding hot water, the hottest water my skin can tolerate before melting, while the Nouvelle Vague album plays in the background.
So I put on the record on the sleek electric vinyl player my parents have set up in my room and make my way to the bathroom. Soon, the soothing strains of the band’s song float into the air, and as I wait for the tub to fill with steaming water, I croon along, singing.
The stringed melody casts a soporific spell over my tired body. I take off my plush bathrobe and step into the sudsy water.
The warmth is a stark contrast to the chill that has settled into my bones, and as I sink into the tub, a shuddering breath escapes my lips.
The water’s warmth eases the tension in my muscles, and I gently massage my knees and hips to alleviate some of that perpetual discomfort into which the you-know-who’s mass has plunged me.
At the same time, I close my eyes, trying to drown out the heated memories of Sin’s hands on my skin, grasping at the same curves that I’m currently massaging. A blush blooms over my face at the steamy recollection.
But I’m far too comfortable in the bathtub to get up immediately.
After what feels like an eternity, the water has become cooler, and I force myself to rise and put on my bathrobe. The record has run out by now, and the house is eerily quiet as I slip into my Gucci loafers and walk to the kitchen.
Rain sputters against the taut glass windows of the living room while I rummage around in the fridge and the cupboards.
Of late, my cravings have gotten particularly esoteric: first there was the experiment of strawberry dipped in melted queso cheese, then there was the adventure of chili lime chips dipped in salted caramel sauce. So I have to look around for a few minutes before an acceptable meal can be plated up.
The cook my parents employ is nobody remarkable, and salads, soups, layered pastas, noodles, and a few choice desserts are all he can reliably stock in the fridge.
In the past, this limited repertoire of dishes was quite acceptable to me because I could just order out if I wanted something more specific.
But none of that seems especially palatable at the moment. My stomach turns at the sight of most meat these days, and the changes in taste because of my you-know-what condition (the teachers didn’t tell us about that part in Biology class!) make it hard to stick to a set menu day in and day out.
The staff might gossip if I suddenly start demanding something totally new, so I have stuck to repurposing the meals prepared by the cook.
Today, I find a small casserole of mac and cheese, which I garnish with some fragrant organic kimchi from a jar and a balsamic onion relish that I have just whipped up.
The piquant, tangy notes would pair well with the creamy pasta, I have decided. And in case my carb cravings are still unsatisfied later on, I can always heat up some garlic bread.
Just as I finish putting the plate together, something catches my attention—a faint sound from the living room. It’s subtle at first, barely discernible over the storm’s relentless drone and crackle.
I stand still for several seconds, and the spoon between my fingers rattles loudly against the delicate bone China laid out over the counter.
“Who . . . ?” I barely manage to whisper into the silence.
Outside, the storm unfolds in an unending dirge, muffling all small sounds and making it hard to trace out the exact outlines of the noise I have just heard. I strain my ears as much as I can without actually leaving the safe confines of the kitchen.
I try to catch any further sounds—do I hear footsteps? Are the curtains rustling in the dark patch behind the slim-necked ceramic pot near the French windows?—but all I hear is the rain.
My instincts are still on high alert, so at last I give in and take a hesitant step toward the living room.
Usually, I don’t notice it, but the house feels unnervingly large for just one person; every furnishing and meticulously curated décor item casts a distorted shadow.
Get a grip, Valentine, my inner voice mutters in my head, and I am just starting to relax when I hear it.
Another sound—this time clearer, like something being moved or, more horrifyingly, a door being creaked open with the utmost care.
My imagination runs wild with images of gnarly, homicidal intruders, the kind that make you realize, “Oh, no, that last frightening, ominous call came from inside the house!”
“Hello?” I call out, my voice trembling. “Is someone there?”
Real smart, Petra, my inner voice chimes in almost immediately. What did you expect them to say? ‘Here I am, come and find me!’?
Of course, my question is answered with silence.
I can’t ignore the urge to see for myself. I start tiptoeing toward the living room, praying to whatever occult primeval spirit was now acting in place of my guardian angel that the floorboards wouldn’t creak under my weight and give away my position.
I pretty much made a beeline toward the bathtub once I reached home, so there hasn’t been time to switch on the lights or start a fire under the antique mantelpiece.
The dim lighting from the small lamps scattered tastefully around the room amplifies the penumbral quality of the space, its simmering menace.
Some movement at the far end of the room catches my eye; it does look like the curtains breathe and sigh in the wind. But is anyone lurking behind them? I pause and turn in that direction, looking out into the well-maintained garden beyond the full-length glass doors.
My heart is hammering away so loudly in my ears that it’s a wonder I can hear anything else.
And there it is. Movement near the lush velvet hangings, just at the edge of the sliding doors. My knuckles are now white from the tension of my fists being balled up by my sides.
The wind roars and rages outside, but a pool of unnatural quiet has been spreading within these walls.
Another faint sound, a rustle and swipe as if of feet creeping stealthily across the floor. “Who’s there?” I ask in a firmer tone.
No response. I inch closer to the sliding doors, noting how the garden lamps cast haloes on the walls.
This time, the curtains move in a more pronounced way.
Startled, I step back and ask, “Who the fuck is that?”
Of course, there is no answer for this polite query either.
But something more fearful happens: A gust of wind pushes back the heavy cloth over the tall outline behind it.
The scream dies in my throat as my mind races. Thankfully, my legs start moving before my mind can catch up, and I take off running toward the safety of my room.
Fear narrows my focus, and every sound is blown out of proportion as I race down the corridor between the kitchen and the flight of stairs leading to my bedroom on the first floor.
Yet it feels like I’m caught in the sticky maws of some nightmare where I can’t run even when I try my hardest. Though I am no slacker and would define my general fitness level as “decent,” some lumbering fear seems to slow down my steps.
As I finally manage to reach the first landing at the base of the second flight, I make the critical mistake of glancing back, half-expecting to see the shadow following.
But there’s nothing.
Thwack! I turn around and collide with something solid. Staggering back, my heart leaping into my throat, my eyes lock onto the last person I expect to see here.
“Sin!” I cry out loud. “What the fuck? It’s really you?”
“Petra, are you okay?” The words nearly escape my notice because there’s a prolonged ringing and quivering in my limbs as the adrenaline from a few moments ago charts its departure course through my veins.
“What are you doing here?” I shout at the same time.
How did he get inside? Why is he here?
Sin’s eyes are brimming over with concern as usual, but there’s a hint of something else too; something that unsettles me even more.
“Petra, relax! You’re okay,” he says in a soft voice underlined with the tiniest hint of urgency. “Actually, I came to make sure you were okay. I was worried. You just ran out into the rain, and it was so cold . . .”
“Forget all that, Sin,” I cut him off impatiently while also taking a step back, my hand reaching for the banister behind me. “How did you get in?” I continue in a shaky voice. “And why the hell didn’t you knock?”
The guys who had set up our intruder alarm system had assured my parents that we had the latest, state-of-the-art home security system. Of course, I was too young to remember, but the impenetrable safety of the house was something I had always taken for granted.
“The door was slightly open, Petra. I think you must have forgotten to lock it in your hurry,” Sin replies easily enough, in a tone that hides any deception. “And I didn’t want to startle you by knocking in the storm. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
I swallow hard and take deep breaths as I try to steady my nerves. The house feels colder all of a sudden.
“Sin, that doesn’t sound right. Even if I hadn’t locked the door, we-we have security. No one can just walk in. There are cameras and . . . and alarms—”
“That’s not important right now,” he says, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. Some dark flicker crosses his face, and his eyes narrow. “We have more serious matters to discuss. For starters, you can tell me who the father of your baby is.”
His abrupt question stuns me.
“What-what do you mean?” I manage to stammer as I step farther away from him. The landing is big enough for the both of us, but it is also a blocked-off space that I long to flee from.
“Petra, don’t you think I deserve the truth?” Sin replies in an entreating voice that completely contrasts with the pointed, frowning expression on his face. “Who is it?”
By now, I can feel my back pressing against the wall behind me.
“Sin, please calm down. Why are you doing this?”
Some sharp pain blazes across his face, and he says, “I-I need to know, Petra. Why have you been avoiding me if the baby is not mine? And if I’m not the father, who is?”