Chapter 15
FIFTEEN | TARYN
It’s been three days.
Three long days of being trapped in the tower because of the Lindenvale brothers, with nothing to do but read books off the shelf and contemplate all the life decisions that led me here.
They have visited off and on, bringing me food and keeping me company, though I don’t want it. Their presence mainly consists of them sitting in the room while I ignore them—or escorting me to the shower on the fourth floor in Brennan’s room.
They are always waiting there when I get out, and it’s infuriating.
I have privacy, but don’t have it at the same time.
I’m just thankful that the night they brought me back into my room, all my clothes were folded neatly in the dresser drawers.
I don’t even want to know how they got them, but I strongly suspect Colten broke into my house when he went to get Rossco.
Jess hasn’t visited since the first time, and I almost wish it were her keeping me company instead of the twins.
Flashbacks of the night I sucked them off in the orchard invade my mind every time they sit in my room and watch me.
My blood scorches the inside of my veins whenever it crosses my mind, leaving a blistering guilt that terrorizes me when I’m alone.
I despise that they hold that power over me now. They know it, too.
I’ve only seen Colten a few times out my window.
He’s either going in and out of his house or caring for Rossco.
And they both disappear during the day, which pisses me off because the need to embrace Rossco is overwhelming.
To at least have some trace of a constant before everything went to shit.
They won’t allow him in the house or my room.
When I asked why, they just said, “Because Colten said so,” and left it at that.
That solidifies the thought that Colten is the one who holds all the power around here.
It wafts off him in tangible waves. For some reason, my body is in tune to know whenever he’s near.
The hairs on my arms stand on end, and chills flurry across my arms. And then, when I approach the window, he’s there.
Never long enough for me to finish the monologue of curse words I mutter under my breath.
The last few nights, around one in the morning, the slam of a car door has stirred me.
I would wake up, rush to the window facing the backyard, and see a woman strut down the sidewalk in ridiculously tall heels that could wedge between those cracks in the concrete.
She would knock on the door and wait, rocking on her heels before he opened the door.
He always pulls them inside hurriedly, but only after making direct eye contact with me. His sly smile grates my every fucking nerve because he knows I am there plastered against the glass like one of those barnacles clinging to a ship’s hull. I’m plagued by curiosity and boredom.
Embarrassingly enough, I would linger patiently, waiting and squinting as if I could see what was going on through the curtains. Sometimes, I would catch movement behind the slit, bodies disturbing the light coming from one of the rooms on the side of the cottage.
The woman wouldn’t leave until an hour later, looking more dilapidated than when she arrived. Her dark figure rushing out was lit by only the solar lights lining the sidewalk, her shadow floating across the silver blades of grass from the moon.
Both nights, it was a different woman. The first had long black hair, tight jeans, and a black lace cami. The other strutted across the pavement in those damn five-inch heels wearing a trench coat. And by my intuition, I’m assuming there was nothing or very little underneath.
My skin crawled while my brain conjured up the worst because Colten gives me that vibe.
The whine of metal hinges alerts me, and I sit up in the bed, placing the thriller I’m reading in my crisscrossed lap, wondering which twin it will be or if it’s Jessica finally deciding to visit me.
Cameron appears, walking up the steps in jeans scuffed with mud and a black T-shirt. He strolls to the foot of my bed, my heart unexpectedly thrumming when he smiles.
“Good morning,” he says casually.
I glower at him. Hard. “I. Want. Out. Of. This. Room.”
His neck slopes, his eyes narrowing on me. Standing up straighter, he flips his head back, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go then.”
I taper a brow. “Are you serious?”
Because I’m not kidding around. I need to step out of this room, or else I will go stir-crazy. Then I’ll take apart the new lampshade they replaced and stab myself repeatedly with a piece of metal instead of using it to escape again.
“Yes, but I need you to listen to what I’m going to tell you first.”
The strumming in my heart ceases, the artery leisurely slinking into my throat. I attempt to swallow it down. “Okay.” My voice shakes nervously.
He paces back and forth on the wood floor, the look crossing his face a heady blend of discomfort and urgency.
“We told you we brought you here for them,” he starts.
Yes. I remember that quite well because I still have no idea who “they” are. Whenever I let my mind wander to theories about why I’m specifically here for them, I want to throw up.
My eyes don’t stray from his.
He shakes his head, out of breath already.
“We wouldn’t have done anything like this if it weren’t absolutely necessary.
” Yeah, I’m sure. “They are really fucking important to us. And we were entirely serious when we said they have fragile minds. They need more than we can give them right now, and with Jess leaving—” He sighs, pulling his fingers through his hair.
“We need someone who can be a constant for them.” He walks up to the side of the bed, his look stern as he points toward the door.
“They need someone constant, Taryn. There is nothing we wouldn’t do for them, and though these are the circumstances, we’re still compensating you for your time. ”
Wait…what?
My brows draw together, my eyes expanding with confusion. What the hell does he mean by ‘compensating me for my time’? I open my mouth to ask, but my jaw slams just as quickly when he continues.
“We are paying you triple what a teacher’s salary would be. Honestly, they’ll be a lot fucking easier than the things you probably deal with all the time. They have been through a lot. They’ve dealt with us while we run around doing all the other shit we have to do for this property, and they—”
I throw my hands up. “Who are they, Cameron?” I shout.
Lifting his hand, he drags it down his face, groaning. He narrows his eyes at me. “And no cursing. Sometimes Bren, Colt, and I let it slip, but you have to try…not to do that.”
He’s breathing like he just ran a mile, his chest rising and falling in a way that makes me think he’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.
“I need you to promise me you’ll stay calm when we get down there,” he says. “Or at least hold all your thoughts in until we leave the room. Then, we’ll talk to you about it.”
“That doesn’t help my anxiety whatsoever!” My frantic heartbeat pulses to my fingertips, gripping the book on my lap. “You’re freaking me out more than you already have.”
“Promise me,” he whispers, a hint of pain seeping through the words.
My stomach is doing somersaults, flipping and swooping, making me nauseous. But I nod sluggishly.
My voice is steady despite all the questions creating a ruckus in my head. “Okay.”
He exhales loudly, his body visibly relaxing more than it was, and starts to walk to the other end of the room and down the stairs. I get up, my hyperactive bare footsteps on the polished wood floors telling him I’m following.
The door was already open; he didn’t even bother to shut it when he came up. He takes the last step, vanishing into the hallway. I speed up my pace, my eyes on his figure advancing down the hallway since I’ve already seen this fourth floor.
There are gray walls, the lower half with wainscoting to add texture, and white Victorian crown moldings, with one of those damn cameras I missed high in the corner.
Ornate gold décor, sconces, and patterned runners line the hallway leading to the staircase.
I pause a few times, admiring the few paintings of Douglas firs and the Pacific coastline encased in gold frames with a nearly illegible signature in the corner.
“How long has this house been here?” I ask, hastening my steps to catch up.
Cameron shrugs. Each hallway looks the same, with four doors on each floor. This house swallows me whole. It’s huge.
I place my palm on the railing, letting the smooth, finished surface glide under my hand as we descend to the bottom floor. Sadly, the worry consuming my being doesn’t rub off onto the varnish.
“My great-grandfather started the first plot of apple trees on Lindenvale Hill in 1910. His sons carried on the orchard, creating new plots to expand the business over time. The house started as a one-story home on the hill, but my grandfather made renovations. And then when widespread distribution started, and we became one of the country’s leading apple producers, my dad gutted everything and built everything you see now. ”
“And the cottage out back?” I ask.
A chuckle slips through Cameron’s tone. “My parents built that for Colten since he’ll never leave.
Eventually, Colt will officially inherit Lindenvale Orchard,” his voice deepens, “and everything that comes with it. The cabin, as we call it, was built for him so he could still live on the property but not have to live with my parents. Well, when they were here anyway.”
We reach the last set of stairs, which open into the grand foyer with the wood coat rack and storage bench against the wall.
An extensive set of windows faces the patio with a gray furniture set and hanging pots of ferns and flowers.
The few steps lead to a sidewalk with lush greenery, which leads to a circular driveway I can’t see from my window that faces the front lawn.
He steps down onto the main floor, taking a left as the foyer expands into a massive living room. My head falls back to scan the ceilings with plasterwork and gold accents. The windows allow bright natural light to filter in, reflecting off the walls painted a muted forest green instead of gray.
At the back of the room, a vast fireplace large enough to crawl in has engravings on the mantel and a television. A decorative rug sits on the dark, polished hardwood floor, with brown furniture set around a large wooden coffee table front and center.
This house is striking and intimidating.
But what’s even more daunting isn’t Colten, Brennan, or Jess lounging on the couches.
Not even close. It’s the boy with his head down, playing with a Nintendo Switch on a chair in the corner, and the beautiful little girl sitting on Colten’s lap with her head on his chest and her eyes trained on me.