by W. Winters
The dents and scrapes on the walls are going to be a bit more difficult to fix. Recalling the feel of her struggling against me stirs an unrecognizable emotion inside my gut. I close my eyes and picture how I held her tight against me, forcing her still and pushing her against the wall, trapping her. She never stopped fighting, though. I count every little mark. Her nails scratched against the drywall, desperate for something to save her. It’s evidence that’s not so easy to clean up.
I did what I had to do, I think although the justification sounds hollow in the back of my mind.
The keys jingle as I toss them onto the table, scooting it back into place and then I snatch up the crumpled piece of thick cream parchment.
The note that destroyed what I had.
I clear my throat, willing the images and memories to go away as my chest tightens with unbearable pain. I had her. I had my sweetheart and she loved me, I know she did.
The letter crinkles as I focus my eyes on it and turn my back to the staircase, resting my shoulder against the doorframe of the dining room and listening to the crackling of the fire.
It’s handwritten and leans more toward feminine penmanship. My eyes narrow as I look over every inch of the paper attempting to recognize the curve of a letter, something, anything. Not a damn memory comes to mind. There’s no name. No way to identify who it came from.
Dear Julia,
It pains me to tell you this, but I can’t stand to watch from a distance as you fall into a trap. Your husband was murdered. I know this is going to shock you, but I have proof. You may not believe me, but I pray that you do.
Mason Thatcher murdered him. Don’t trust him. Don’t let him know that you know. If he finds out, you won’t be safe.
All I can tell you is that you need to run. Stay far away.
I can’t say any more. I hope this letter finds you safe and you take every word for what it is, the truth.
Truly yours,
X
Proof. My narrowed gaze focuses on the single word, my heart racing faster and faster. There’s not a single possibility that someone has proof.
There were no cameras around. There’s no fucking way anyone saw. Her prick of a husband was leaving his apartment after screwing his mistress, and on his way back home. Back to Jules, his wife he didn’t deserve. My chest rumbles with a low murmur of anger at the memory. His arrogance was one of the things I hated most about him.
My eyes whip to the stairs as I hear Jules call out again. Her voice is cracked and so uneven I can’t make out a damn word she’s saying. I grit my teeth and resist the urge to burn the note. I need it and the envelope it came in.
This is a fucking mess. But I make a solemn promise to Jules: I’ll fix this.
Gripping the banister, I wait a moment for her cries to cease and then slowly ascend the staircase. A tic in my jaw starts to twitch as I formulate a plan. I need to explain why I did it and calm her down. I need time or a fucking miracle. It’s too late to deny any of it. I was too rash, too caught up in the moment when she confronted me. All I could see was red.
The door opens with a gentle push. I didn’t bother to lock it since she’s tied to the bed.
My eyes latch onto her the second I step into our bedroom. She’s barely clothed, her gorgeous pale skin on full display, although most of it is flushed from her struggling and screaming.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” I ask her calmly, completely ignoring the current situation.
Her eyes narrow as she sucks in a breath, and I can feel the anger rolling off of her in waves. I nearly let out a sigh of relief. Anger I can deal with. The thought almost makes me smile.
“Let me out,” she says although her eyes flicker down and her voice wavers with the demand.
“I can’t do that if you’re going to run.”
“Just let me go, Mason,” she pleads with a soft whimper. She licks her lips and attempts to push herself upright. Jules winces from the binds cutting into her wrists, and I can’t fucking stand it.
My hands ball into fists, but I stay put. I can’t risk her trying to escape.
“You need to stay here, with me, until we figure this out,” I say to her in a placating tone as I step forward, rounding the bed to get closer to her. Her breathing quickens and I’m not sure if it’s due to anger or fear from me getting closer to her. My blood runs cold at the second possibility.
“We need to talk about this,” I tell her gently as I sit down carefully and attempt to ease whatever worry I can. I don’t want to tell her anything, and everything in me is screaming to lie and let it all be forgotten. But she’s mine, and I won’t do that to her. It was one thing to withhold the truth about the past, but it’s another to outright lie about it.
She should know the truth, even if she doesn’t like it.
“Ask me anything.” My gaze is struck by hers as I speak. Her baby blues are rimmed in red, and her cheeks tearstained. She’s gorgeous even like this, but not when she misbehaves. She presses her lips into a thin line, even though the bottom one trembles, and shakes her head. It seems fear is the dominant emotion. A vise tightens over my chest.
I look past her as the thick gray velvet curtain sways slightly when the heater turns on with a click. I watch it for a moment, steadying my breath and quickly come up with a solution.
“For every question,” I start to say and then pause to look back at her. She’s wary and when she realizes I’m offering her something, her entire body noticeably stiffens. “Every question you ask, I’ll answer you honestly and untie you a bit.”
It’s not the best solution, seeing as how there are only four knots total keeping the rope in place. One on each wrist, and two tying her to the bed.
“You can’t fight me, Jules.” I harden my voice just before she can answer. “I’ll let you go, but I won’t let you run. Do you understand?”
She swallows and then licks her lips. “Yes,” she says, the answer just above a murmur. I can tell it hurts her to speak at all, because she withdraws the moment the word slips into the tense air between us, a look of pain evident on her face.
She needs tea and to be held. She needs a gentle hand.
The bed groans as I sit, resting my hand on her bare thigh. Like a good girl she doesn’t move, but she does close her eyes as if she can’t stand my touch. I gently rub my thumb in soothing circles and I stare down at where our skin meets as I wait for her.
She’ll forgive me, I know she will. It’s only a matter of time and I’ll let her lead. But only if she moves in the right direction. Closer to the two of us regaining what we had only hours ago. I just need time and given the fact my development company is now dissolved, I have plenty of it.
“Why did you do it?” she asks.
My head lifts at her question, and I meet her gaze head-on. There’s nothing but sadness in those gorgeous doe eyes. “He was responsible for a woman’s death.”
Before I’ve even finished saying the words, she’s already shaking her head. Already in denial. “No, I don’t believe you.” Her voice cracks, a telltale sign of her refusal to accept the truth as she rips her gaze from me and stares straight ahead at the door.
“I’m not lying to you, Jules.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice tender, thinking back on what came over me when I decided Jace Anderson deserved to die.
“You lied,” she practically hisses at me, taking me by surprise. She screams with outrage, “You’re a liar!”
“I never lied to you,” I answer evenly, correcting her and ignoring her outburst while I tighten my grip on the edge of the bed. I have to wait a moment for her to calm down before reaching up and slowly untying the knot on her left wrist. A deal is a deal. Even if I fucking hate her response. Her tender skin is bright pink, and it makes my chest feel tight with guilt. I never wanted to hurt her. Never. I retake my seat as she whispers, “You didn’t tell the truth.”
My throat dries and a rawness takes over, dampening every nerve ending along my skin. I don’t have
many memories of my mother, but the ones I do, the ones that are clear, are the ones where she calls my father a liar. The images flash in front of me, and my body goes cold. “I’m not a liar. I did what I had to do.”
“I could never do what you did,” she says.
Everyone can kill. I keep the thought to myself, hating how true it is. It’s only a matter of what would push someone to do it.
“Do you have any other questions?”
“Are you going to kill me?” she asks as if it’s a real possibility. Her breathing is hesitant and then hitches when she closes her eyes tight.
Waiting for those doe eyes to look back at me, desperate for an answer, the one word I give her is filled with a promise. “Never.” It makes my heart hurt that she thinks it’s even an option. “I told you I’d never hurt you.” Of all the things today that have me on edge, that right there is the most distressing. The thought in her head that I’m someone who would hurt her is unacceptable.
My hand rests gently against her thigh and she’s quick to pull away, as if I’ve scorched her skin. I still at the sobering sight of her.
Her blue eyes have never looked so cold as she looks up at me and says, “No.” Her next words carry so much conviction, so much hate. “Don’t touch me… please.”
I clench my jaw and hesitate. This is too much. Too far, and too much. I’m quick to untie all the remaining binds, blood rushing in my ears and my fingers seemingly going numb. I drop the thin rope and it pools into a puddle around her, but she doesn’t move to get up. She doesn’t do anything but lean farther away from me.
Her mouth opens as I push off the bed and stand to leave, but she doesn’t say anything. There’s only silence.
“You may hate me now, Jules, but I still love you, and you’re not going anywhere until you know that and until you understand why it had to happen.”
The door closes behind me with a loud click and I don’t stop walking until I get to the office to retrieve the house keys. I’ll lock the door. I’ll keep her here until she understands.
There’s no fucking way I’m letting her leave. She’ll figure it out eventually; she’s always been mine. It was only a matter of me finding her.
Jules
Although my eyes are tired and my head and limbs ache, I don’t move. Not an inch. Not since I took the engagement ring off my finger and flung it across the room.
I’m far too aware of every event that led to this. It’s as if I’ve lived my life under the warm silk sheets of the most welcoming bed, only to be kicked out, landing face-first on the cold, cracked concrete floor.
More than anything, one word keeps coming to mind. Unprepared. I have no idea what to do, or even what to think. It’s all a mess. My life is a jumbled mess of chaos and tragedy. It’s hard enough to grasp the fact that Jace was murdered. Much harder still to think that I fell in love with his murderer.
I need to get away. Far away from Mason just so I can think straight.
I can’t focus on anything else other than that one truth: I need to get the hell out of this room.
The bedroom door’s locked from the outside; the telltale jingle of keys and then the loud click of the lock a few moments ago alerted me to that. I already know it’s the case without even trying to turn the knob. I suppose that’s better than having to face him. To my left, the curtain sways and draws my eyes.
My throat closes at the thought of seeing him again. I loved him. My heart feels like a vise is clamped around it, squeezing tighter each time I think about who Mason really is and what I’ve done. I fell in love with my husband’s killer.
The shock is still there, but it’s not enough to keep the sickness of my reality at bay.
My head feels dizzy—from exhaustion maybe, I’m not sure, but I don’t have time to think. I don’t have time for anything until I’m far away from here.
I stare at the lone window in this room. I know it’s an idiotic notion to think I can climb down from the second story and land safely below, but I have no other choice and I refuse not to try.
If there’s one thing the recollection of the events leading up to this have screamed at me, it’s that I need to take action and stop allowing life to railroad me.
I don’t have my keys, my phone or wallet. With the groan of the bed seemingly chiding me as I stand up and make my way to the window, I peek outside to see there’s already a thin layer of snow on the ground. Given its late November in New York, I’m not shocked but it’s still frustrating. If I make it down there alive without breaking my neck, he’ll be able to see where I’ve gone. A part of me huffs at the thought, knowing this is foolish, trying to escape.
But I only need to flag someone down on the road or bang on a neighbor’s door. I have to try, and I’m not waiting another second.
The floor in the bedroom is creaky and every little sound forces me to check that the door is still closed. I know he’ll be able to hear me from downstairs if he’s listening. I’m careful with each step and do my best to limit the noise as I move around. I inhale deeply through clenched teeth as I open the dresser as quietly as I can but it’s loud just the same as I slowly pull on the drawer. I’ve never noticed it before, but right now every single noise is far too loud.
My heart rampages in protest at each squeak and groan from the wooden floors. I’m only getting dressed, I tell myself over and over. If he comes up now, if he hears me and storms into the room to check on me, I’m only getting dressed. Surely that’s what he must think.
My eyes burn with unshed tears thinking about Mason coming up here. Realizing the fear I now have for a man I once loved makes my chest feel unbearably tight.
What if he catches me?
What will he do when he’s realized I’ve left?
Even worse: What would he do to me?
I swallow down the insecurity and fear; I can’t be paralyzed by them. I can’t wait here in this damn room for him to decide what to do with me. I’m stronger than that.
The first shirt and pair of leggings I pull out are good enough and then from the drawer below, I grab a pair of jeans to pull over top of the leggings. It’s freezing outside. I don’t have a coat because they’re all downstairs in the hall closet, but I layer a sweater and then another one over my long-sleeved shirt. It’s hard to tell if the burning heat is from the fabrics or from the anxiety that rages through me.
My fingers shake as I pull down the long cashmere sleeves. If he came up now, he’d know for sure that this is more than me just getting dressed. I’m dressed to leave. The thoughts don’t slow me, they only push me to be faster; I’m fueled by nerves and the desperation to save myself.
I can barely breathe as I kneel and tie the shoelaces on a pair of sneakers I grabbed from the walk-in closet. My hands don’t stop trembling and my vision keeps going in and out as the dull pain behind my eyes gets worse. I sway as my light-headedness becomes too much, and I have to close my eyes and breathe. Just breathe.
I stand on wobbly legs and walk as quietly as I can to the window, which is just as unhelpful as it was a moment ago. Staring over my shoulder at the closed door, I lick my dry, cracked lips as I unlock the window. The lock on the left turns easily but the one on the right is tight, and I need both hands and all my focus to loosen it. Each second that passes seems too long, as if this small moment is enough time for him to stop me.
Tick, tick, tick.
The sound of my heavy breathing and the blood rushing in my ears are all I hear as I push the window up as high as I can. I manage to lift the heavy thing about two feet, and I hope it’ll be enough. I know there’s a way to somehow angle the window and get the screen out, but in my haste and nervousness, I can’t figure it out.
The heater clicks on again and I nearly have a heart attack, my scream barely contained as it tries to escape from my throat.
Tick, tick, tick.
I can’t wait any longer. As the heat drifts up from the vent and mixes with the frigid November air that blows across my face,
I panic.
My only thought is to rip out the screen. Without wasting another tick of the internal clock, I snatch a shirt from the hamper to my right and wrap it around my hand. My footsteps were far too loud, but time is more important.
I take one more look back at the door before punching through the screen. It breaks surprisingly easily and I nearly fall forward, the torn mesh scraping against my forearm. I contain my gasp and ignore how my heart seems to leap up my throat as I look down two stories to the cold hard ground below. It’s a sobering sight.
There’s a thin layer of white snow coating the grass and although the weather has let up, the air is sharp from the biting wind. I take a deep breath, pulling the ripped screen back and tearing it open more, protecting my hand with the clothing. Somehow ripping it wider is more difficult than making the initial tear.
My breathing comes in faster, and the light-headed sensation returns when the hole is large enough for me to climb through.
All the spiked edges of the broken screen are going to catch on my sweater, I already know. Once I get footing out on the sill, I’ll have to try to grip onto the pillar to my right and slowly climb down while balancing myself on the stones that line the house. It’s practically impossible. My head shakes of its own accord at the thought, refusing to feel defeated. I have to do this. I have no other choice.
The threads of my sweater snag like I knew they would the moment I climb through the window and brush against the screen, but I press forward. As my left foot finds purchase on the windowsill, the wind blows so forcefully that I cling to the frame with my right hand and consider abandoning the idea completely. I’ve gone absolutely mad. My nose and cheeks burn from the biting cold, and I have to close my eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I refuse to go back in there. The second the wind stops, I finish crawling out and balance on the ledge, my knuckles bright white from holding on so tightly. Each time I have to readjust my grip, I’m filled with a renewed sense of terror. Only the balls of my feet are balanced on the thin ledge, and my hands already ache from clutching the window in the bitter cold.