Ty strains to look at me directly. I smile, knowing he can’t move that far. I made sure of it.
“You’re not an owl, Ty.”
“What are you doing?”
“That, Ty, is not an appropriate question. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you. You’ll have to drink for that.”
I spin the cap off the vodka bottle and seize Ty by the jaw, tilting his head back. He squirms. I hold the bottle to his lips, but he sets his jaw.
“I’ve never known you to turn down a drink, Ty. Now is most certainly not the time to try and clean up your act.”
Ty doesn’t unclench his jaw. I sigh and jam the bottle into his mouth. Whatever teeth he had left in the front shatter. Ty screams and I upend the bottle, pouring a few shots’ worth into his mouth. He sputters at first, but then reflexively swallows, liquor and teeth both.
I release Ty and set the bottle back down, carefully screwing the cap back on. Ty’s gotten blood all over it. And it was such a nice bottle. As far as vodka bottles go. I’m sure he overpaid for it.
I wait for Ty to catch his breath. He’s not trying to look at me anymore, but he’s holding his head high. I must have woken his defiant side.
“Why am I tied to my staircase?” Ty asks.
He sounds more in control than before I caved his face in. His voice is wet and slurred, but there’s an edge to it. I always wondered how Ty would handle adversity.
“Decent question,” I say, taking a second drink of whiskey. “Though the answer should be obvious. We have a lot to discuss, and I won’t have you running around, fighting back, or any of that bullshit. I don’t want you going anywhere. And, technically, you’re taped up. Not tied.”
Ty groans, shapes it into a grunt, and spits a gob of blood onto his white carpet. Even at an angle, I see the hardened look in his eyes. He’s staring straight ahead.
“That’s what I like to see,” I say. “Get a little dirty. Make a mess. It’ll be good for you to just let down for a bit.”
“Fuck you,” Ty says.
“Well, shit, Ty, my friend, that wasn’t a question at all. Time to drink up.”
I force Ty to swallow another mouthful of vodka. He doesn’t fight as much this time, but when I finish, he screams. I replace the cap and set the bottle on the last step. Ty continues to shout and curse. I have to imagine liquor is the last thing a man wants poured over fresh wounds.
Bing.
With Ty still carrying on, I open the text message from Joy.
Forgot wine. Can you grab something on your way home? Anything.
I glance at Ty. He’s stopped shrieking, but he’s panting like a wild animal. It’s such a beautiful change for Ty, to see him trussed up, slathered in his own spit and blood. I’ve never seen the man with a hair out of place.
Sure thing, be home soon.
Reply sent, I tuck the phone back into my pocket and walk upstairs. I find the master bathroom and carefully disrobe. My hands are coated in blood and I can’t afford to take any chances. I scrub down in Ty’s shower, dry off with one of his impossibly soft towels, and examine my clothing.
“Ah, fuck.”
There’s blood at the bottom of one pant leg and a spattering across my t-shirt. I check the time. Four o’clock. Where does the time keep going? Doesn’t matter. I still have time.
I put my boxers and socks back on and take my soiled pants and shirt downstairs. I pass by Ty without a word, careful to avoid stepping in the numerous pools of blood. I feel his eyes on my back as I search for his laundry room. I find it in a small alcove off the kitchen. I scrub my pants and shirt in the sink with hot water and detergent. The blood comes out without too much effort. Satisfied, I toss my clothes in the washer and start it.
In the kitchen, I find a simple wine rack on the counter. I look over the bottles and pull out a fancy-looking red. I don’t know the first thing about wine, but it looks like Ty’s most expensive. And Joy prefers red. I remember this much.
I wander back to the living room and climb the stairs, stopping halfway up to sit and wait. The whiskey and vodka bottles are still on the bottom step. But I can’t drink anymore. I have dinner soon.
“Are you doing…laundry?” Ty asks.
I’m so at peace that I almost don’t hear him. “Yes. I got your blood on my shirt and pants.”
“Well, forgive me,” Ty says.
“It’s not your fault. The bleeding, that is. It’s about the only thing in our present circumstance that isn’t your fault. That’s just nature.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to sit here and wait for my clothes. Then, I am going to take this lovely bottle of wine I found and go home to my wife and child. Joy is making me a special dinner. I’ll let you imagine what I’m going to have for dessert.”
“What do you want from me?”
“That’s an excellent question, but I’m afraid we’re done playing for today. So shut your fucking mouth and let me enjoy this perfect day.”
Ty grumbles a slur of curses.
I look down at him and sigh loudly.
He continues to curse, likely to himself at this point, but the noise is giving me a headache. And I’m out of pills.
I return to the kitchen and search through its contents once more. I find a large bottle of grain alcohol in the back of Ty’s liquor cabinet and set it on the counter. I can’t fathom why he would have it, but it will suit my needs perfectly.
I move to the back room, which seems largely dedicated to storage, though it’s just as tidy as the rest of his house. A dozen boxes line one wall, perfectly stacked, each labeled in calligraphy.
“What a fucking prick,” I say, grabbing down one that lists candles in its inventory.
I toss aside the cover and pick out a lovely rose-scented candle, a foot long and untouched by flame. Thrilled with the find, I head back to the kitchen, snatch up the bottle of grain alcohol, and re-enter the living room. I set the items on the stairs and move toward the entryway. There, in a small basket along with Ty’s keys and wallet, I find a lighter. It’s obnoxiously gaudy, steel-cased and engraved. Far as I know, Ty doesn’t even smoke.
Ty watches me warily as I stride toward him, tossing the lighter from hand to hand, clad in just underwear and socks. I revel in the lunacy of it all.
“You fucking psycho,” Ty says.
I ignore him and grab the bottle of grain alcohol. It’s full and sealed. I wrench off the cap and dump the entire contents onto Ty’s lap and the surrounding carpet.
“That was for a special occasion, dick,” he says.
I don’t know where he gets the gall. He’s toothless, bloodied, and practically crucified to his own staircase. Some people have such twisted perception.
There’s no avoiding getting my feet dirty for what I’m about to do. I toss the bottle aside and remove my socks. I set them on the couch and retrieve the candle. I kneel in front of Ty.
“This is a special occasion, but as I said, I am done listening to you. For now. So, be a dear and hold on to this.”
I grab his hair and thrust the candle into his mouth, nearly wedging it in his throat. He gags and thrashes against my grip, but I force his head back and hold him tight until he stops resisting. Still holding his hair, I release the candle and pull my hand back. Ty’s breath hisses around the candle, but he doesn’t drop it. Not bad for a man with so few teeth left.
“Good,” I say, reaching back for the lighter. “Now, seriously. Don’t drop it. Grain alcohol is really fucking flammable. I’d hate to see your whole house go up.”
I light the candle and watch as Ty’s gaze gravitates to the flame. Crossed, his eyes widen.
“You’re more than welcome to try and spit it out if you think you can get it far enough away from you,” I say with a smile. “Or who knows? The booze may not even catch at all. Could just take a chance, if you feel like gambling.”
His eyes flick to mine and I feel his neck tense. I let go of his hair and pat
his head.
I step back and survey my handiwork. Ty’s eyes are glued to the small flame flickering at the end of the candle. Damn, he’s beautiful. A glowing altar of sin and deceit. A beacon of hell. I can’t decide if I want him to survive or not.
The washer buzzes from the laundry room, snapping me from my trance. I transfer my clothes to the dryer and turn it on. I check the time. Four thirty. Right on schedule. I return to the middle of the stairs and sit in perfect peace and silence, the only sound the soft rumbling of the dryer.
The dryer sounds its completion and wakes me from a light doze. I yawn, wipe a line of drool from my chin, and skip down the stairs. The candle in Ty’s mouth has burned down slightly. He’s still frozen in place. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch, but it didn’t take much to quell his obstinacy.
I scrub my hands and feet, using the kitchen sink, and move to the laundry room for my clothes. I redress, grab my shoes from upstairs, and sit on the couch in the living room to put them on. I don’t give Ty a passing glance. I check my appearance in the giant mirror hanging on the wall in Ty’s entryway, carefully scanning for any sign of the afternoon’s activities.
Satisfied, I grab the bottle of wine and leave.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I walk into the dining room at precisely six o’clock.
“What impeccable timing,” Paul says as he enters from the kitchen, carrying a dish of green beans, smothered in a mushroom cream sauce.
I follow the dish with my eyes as Paul crosses the room and sets it down on a fully dressed table. He wags a finger at me. “No tasting till everything and everyone is here.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, snapping to attention and throwing a stiff salute.
“And don’t be a rascal,” he adds, relieving me of my wine bottle and returning to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s my job!” Aza shouts from behind me.
I jump and spin around just in time to catch her hurtling at me. I wrap her up in a hug and stand, taking her off her feet. I shake her from side to side.
“Ahh,” she screams. “Mom! He’s hugging me again! Ahh!”
Joy appears in the doorway, a mock frown on her face, and a huge bowl of macaroni and cheese in her hands. I drop Aza at once and rush to help Joy.
“Shoo,” she says. “Just get out of my way. It’s heavy and boiling-lava hot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, stepping smartly aside.
Aza bumps into my side and salutes Joy as she passes with the main course.
“Mmm,” I moan. “Smells flipping amazing.” I wink at Aza.
Joy smiles as she places the bowl in the center of the table. She offers a short bow.
“Mom put fish in it!” Aza shouts.
“I most certainly did not,” Joy says.
“But Grandfather said—”
“Crab!” Paul shouts from the kitchen. “I said your mother was putting crab in the mac and cheese.”
Aza slaps her forehead. “I knew it was something from the water. Crabs are gross.”
“No way,” I say. “Crab mac and cheese is my favorite.”
Aza pulls a face and stalks into the kitchen, no doubt in search of her grandfather to torture. Joy embraces me.
“How did everything go?” she asks, still leaning into my body.
“You know, things started off a little rocky, having to talk with the detective and all, but after that… Well, turned out to be a pretty great day.”
“Good,” Joy says with a grin. “But it’s not over quite yet.”
Paul and Ruthie come in, carrying glasses and a pitcher each, one of tea and the other lemonade. Aza skips behind them with a fistful of napkins that she unceremoniously tosses in the general direction of each place setting.
“Sit, sit,” Ruthie urges. “Food’s only going to get colder.”
“I like cold food,” Aza says, plopping down on a chair.
Ruthie shoots her a stern look, but relents at Paul’s gruff laugh. “She’s a born fighter, that one,” he says. “Gotta go against everything just for the sake of it.”
“For fu—”
“Anyway!” I say loudly, sitting between Joy and Aza. “This all looks amazing. Aza said you were making something special, but—”
“Aza!” Joy, Ruthie, and Paul shout in unison.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t tell him,” she replies, fingers dancing across the table toward a mound of gently steaming rolls.
Three stern looks focus on Aza. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a dinner like this,” I say, mouth already watering. Each dish is a personal favorite of mine. “So, what’s the big occasion? “
“Seriously? Your birthday, you nitwit,” Joy says, elbowing me. “I know it’s tomorrow, but I thought it’d be a bigger surprise if we celebrated tonight. I know things have been crazy, but you didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
I stare dumbly at her. Holy shit, I forgot my own birthday.
“Uh, yeah, of course,” I say, fighting to save face. “But you didn’t have to do all this. I mean, you’ve never done anything like this before for me, birthday or not.”
“I know, but things are different now, remember? Changing for the better.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Paul says, raising a glass of iced tea.
“Very nice,” Ruthie adds, holding up a glass as well.
“Can we eat yet?” Aza asks.
“Oh, come on, Aza, put up your glass,” Paul says. “It’s for your dad’s birthday, after all.”
Aza sighs dramatically, but climbs onto her knees to reach the center of the table with her glass. “To Dad, for getting older,” she says.
“And to changing,” I say.
“For the better,” Joy adds.
Clink.
As soon as our glasses return to the table, the feasting begins. I’m ravenous. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and torturing my wife’s lover really worked up an appetite.
Dishes make their rounds at a blur, and in a few minutes, everyone is stuffing their faces, speaking only enough to remark on the wonder of the meal. I’ve never tasted food so good. Even Aza reluctantly tries the crab mac and cheese. She staunchly denies liking it, but swallows a full helping before anyone can argue.
As dinner continues, I can’t help but sneak quick glances at Joy. Occasionally, I catch her smiling back at me. For the life of me, I can’t summon any hatred for her. She still seems to have actually changed. It doesn’t explain what she was doing at Ty’s, but I force myself to believe it was to end things. Shit. I hadn’t thought of this before. Why else would she have gone there today? Of course it was to break things off. In the name of change. I’m such an idiot.
I put my hand on Joy’s leg and squeeze. She places her hand on mine and returns the gesture of affection. The knowledge that Joy ultimately rejected Ty adds fuel to my euphoria. And Ty’s misery has only just begun. He still needs to pay for his sin. It’s too late for either of us to turn back.
“How’s the back treating you today?” Paul asks, nodding at the dish of green beans in front of my plate.
I spoon some onto my plate and pass it across the table. “Just fine,” I say. “Actually, I’ve never felt better.” I haven’t even thought about it all day.
“That’s wonderful,” Ruthie says. “More mac and cheese?”
“Hit me with it,” I say, extending my plate.
Ruthie globs a heap onto it and motions for others to accept seconds as well. Aza nearly knocks the plate from my hand as she thrusts hers forward.
Ruthie peers at the small girl over the top of her glasses. “Thought you didn’t like crab? Something about it being gross.”
Aza shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t. Crabs are the worst. That’s why I have to eat ‘em all up. That way, they’ll be all gone. You’re welcome.”
Ruthie smirks and dishes her a heaping spoonful.
“Any word on the investigation?” Paul asks.
“No
,” I say. “They’re being pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. Makes me wonder if they’ll ever find out who did it.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will,” Ruthie says.
“I hope not,” Aza says, mac and cheese falling from her mouth.
Everyone at the table questions her at the same time.
“You don’t want them to find out who tried to hurt us?” Joy asks.
Tick.
I scratch at my ear.
Aza shrugs and resumes her eating.
The adults stare at her a moment before resuming their own conversation. “Maybe she’s just nervous about the whole thing. Wants to forget it,” Ruthie says. “I can’t blame her for wanting it to just go away.”
A tiny hand grabs my knee. I turn to Aza. She winks at me.
Tick. Tick.
I look away and poke around my plate with my fork, bringing nothing to my mouth. There’s no fucking way Aza knows what happened that night. She’s just a weird little girl playing games. Acting the contrarian, as usual.
“After such a mess, I can’t believe there’s much evidence left behind to follow,” Paul says.
“You’d be surprised, Dad,” Joy says. “I’m sure whatever monster struck the match thinks the same, but criminals almost always get caught. You can’t do something like that and hope to hide it forever. Someone knows.”
My stomach turns. My vision flickers for a moment. Oh shit.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I shut my eyes and try to ward off the inexplicable sense of vertigo that washes over me like the tide.
“Well, let’s hope so,” Ruthie says. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. I hear it in triplicate. “I just hate the idea of that maniac still being out there.”
“Oh, hon, we don’t know they actually wanted to hurt you,” Paul says. “Some people just like fire. Makes ‘em hot, if you know what I mean.” Paul concludes his poor pun with a hearty laugh that fractures my stupor.
My glass of tea falls over.
“Man down!” Paul shouts to more laughter.
Joy snaps into action and presses her napkin into the spill. I right the glass and look around the table sheepishly. I don’t remember hitting it, but my hands are shaking.
House of Sand: A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 13