Текст книги "Consequences"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Consequences
Aleatha Romig
Copyright © 2011 by Aleatha Romig. Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913314 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4653-4188-4 Softcover 978-1-4653-4187-7 Ebook 978-1-4653-4189-1 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book was printed in the United States of America. To order additional copies of this book, contact:
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Afterward
Acknowledgments
Thank you especially to my wonderful husband, children, and mother. I love you all! You have my undying love and gratitude for indulging me while I pursued my dream.
It is not the strongest of the species that survives,
not the most intelligent that survives.
Itistheonethatisthemostadaptabletochange. —Charles Darwin
Chapter 1
The fade into consciousness happens slowly like the melting of ice. The water is still present. It just changes form. Claire’s mind couldn’t process the entirety of her circumstances. She knew she was awakening. She felt the warmth of soft sheets and a thick comforter against her skin, but it felt wrong. Where was she?
Suddenly, the ice was liquid, and her veins filled with the cold condensing fluid. Her heartbeat intensified as the poor muscle attempted to pump the viscous solution. The sting of her swollen eyelids brought back memories of her arrival to this place. She strained to listen, to hear anything. The only sound that registered was the incessant ringing within her ears. More with curiosity than courage, she cautiously opened her eyes. Peering around the room, she discovered that she was indeed alone. Momentary relief caused her chest to contract and a sigh to escape her lips.
Under other circumstances, she might relish the amazing softness of the silk sheets or the grandeur of the king-sized bed. Today, however, despite the warm cocoon, her body shivered as the fog of her mind cleared. The memories of the last night began to surface from the depths of her unconsciousness. Perhaps it was a nightmare. She tried to convince herself it wasn’t real.
But if it wasn’t real, how did she get here? And where was here?
Enormous windows, currently covered by golden drapes, allowed just enough sunlight for her eyes to adjust. For the first time since her arrival, she really looked at her surroundings. She saw the four ornately carved corner posts of the bed. They were exquisite, and looking beyond, so was the room where it sat. The alluring bedroom looked larger and more lavish than any she had ever seen. The room looked like heaven, but she already knew it was hell.
Again, she listened—nothing. The only sounds were the memories in her head. She heard herself screaming until her throat felt raw, and pounding on the bedroom door until her clenched fist ached. No one heard. Or if anyone heard, no one cared. This beautiful room was her prison.
Slowly, she attempted to sit. The act in itself caused discomfort, more evidence that last night was real. Slowly shifting, she managed to see more of her cell, a sitting area with an overstuffed chair, complementary sofa, small fireplace in the wall surrounded by marble tiles, and a cozy table for two with a crystal vase of fresh flowers. The intimacy of the table caused Claire’s stomach to churn. The bile that seeped into her throat tasted vile. She tried desperately to swallow.
Conspicuously missing were dressers or other furniture usually associated with a bedroom. Yet dimly she remembered being told that this was her new bedroom. Looking around the perimeter of the room, she saw beautiful white woodwork: built-in bookcases, shelves, and three doors. The one farthest from her bed appeared solid, firm, and unharmed after the pounding she’d delivered the night before. There was no reason to believe that it would now be unlocked. What Claire did know with some certainty was that it held her only avenue to freedom. She needed to find her way back through that door.
Closing her eyes, she remembered the events of last night. As the memories started to flow from the recesses of her unconsciousness, her new goal was to stop them. She failed, seeing him behind her closed lids.
Anthony Rawlings was so different from the man she met less than a week ago—the handsome tall man with brown hair and the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. He’d been polite, kind, and gentlemanly. Last night, none of those words could be used to describe him. To say he was cruel would not explain what she endured. One could say demanding, aggressive, abrasive, controlling—but above all, rough.
Shifting slightly, she realized that the slightest movement made her muscles hurt. Her thighs throbbed. Her body was tender, and her mouth swollen and raw. She remembered his scent, his taste, and the sound of his voice. Those thoughts instigated a revolt deep in the recesses of her stomach. At that moment, the images of him made her heart race—not in anticipation, but fear. This was insane. Things like this happened on crime shows and movies, not in real life and not to people like her.
She tried to censor the memories to find the one of him finally leaving the room, then the images of her futile barrage on the door. Tears fell from her swollen eyes as the visions replayed in her mind. She laid her head back on the velvety pillow, allowing herself the luxury of more sleep and an escape from this reality.
The next time she woke, Claire knew she couldn’t put off looking in the other doors any longer. She needed to find the one that held the bathroom. The sumptuous carpet enveloped her feet as she stepped from the bed. Despite the plush carpeting, the weight of her body made her legs cry out in pain. Sadly, she remembered crying out more than once. Her internal monologue screamed with unanswered questions: How did this happen? How did I get here? Why am I here? And most crucially, how can I get out?
The three doors she’d counted earlier were arranged, two near the bed and one by the sitting area. Claire knew the lone door was her passage to freedom. She wrapped a sheet around her aching body and slowly approached the massive barrier of solid wood. The doorknob was the kind that was really a lever. Anxiety caused her hand to tremble as she slowly reached for the cold metal. If it moved, would she flee wrapped only in a sheet? Hell yes!
Excitement quickly turned to disappointment as the lever remained perfectly horizontal. It didn’t even wiggle as many locked doors do. The solid impenetrable barrier stood unyielding. Despite the expected outcome, disappointment caused the ache within Claire’s body to intensify. Turning around, she viewed her cell. One of the other two doors had the best chance of holding her desired destination. She opened the first door and revealed a closet, one the size of most bedrooms. It could more accurately be considered a dressing room with built-in drawers, shoe racks, shelves, and hanging racks. Surprisingly, the racks and shelves were full. These clothes seemed to come straight from a Saks photo shoot, not the kind Claire would or could choose for herself. She was more the Target or Vintage type. These clothes belonged to someone who lived the life of the rich and famous. Who was that someone? Claire wondered why she was in that person’s room and why she remembered being told it was hers.
Opening the next door, Claire found her destination. She stepped into a bathroom like one she’d seen on television, large and very white. The coolness of the tile hit the soles of her bare feet. White marble, white porcelain, silver accents, and glass surrounded her. If it weren’t for the plush purple towels, the room would be totally devoid of color. There was a large garden tub and a full glass shower that sported large and small showerheads from every direction. The sink adjoined a dressing table with a large lighted mirror and stool.
She turned to see the person in the mirror. The image frightened Claire as she studied the reflection. Her tangled brown hair framed an unfamiliar face. There were bruises around her lips trying to match the color of the towels, and her left temple appeared red and swollen. Slowly dropping the sheet, the visual evidence of the soreness she experienced could be seen as red and purple bruises over her body and extremities. The vision restarted her tears. With steely determination, she gripped the lever of another door and found her destination.
A plush white bathrobe hung near the shower. Twisting the knobs to adjust the water, Claire decided a shower would make her feel better. Hot steamy water hit her skin as she stepped into the spacious shower. The prickling sensation of a thousand needles pierced her shoulders as the hot water flowed over her battered muscles. It was a sensation of both pleasure and pain. She allowed the water to continue its assault, and as time passed and the temperature remained high, her muscles relaxed. The sweet floral aroma of the shampoo and body soap replaced the odors of last night. A renewed sense of strength filled her resolve. Somehow she would survive this nightmare.
Claire developed a plan as she used the luxurious lavender towel to dry her battered body. She would talk to Anthony and explain that this was a mistake. They could split ways, no questions asked and no charges pressed. The soft robe warmed her, providing a bogus sense of security.
The woman in the mirror looked better. However, her dark hair now fell messily in wet tangles. Without thinking, Claire began to open drawers and cabinets. Just like the closet, the bath was fully stocked. In front of her, she saw thousands of dollars’ worth of name-brand cosmetics. She found everything from skin care to eyeliner. Of course, there was also an array of hair supplies. She was wearing someone else’s robe, sleeping in her bed, and showering in her bathroom. Using her hairbrush only added to the list of intrusions. Claire didn’t have many options.
In the medicine cabinet, she found a toothbrush still encased in cellophane. Claire couldn’t resist. The shower, soap, shampoo, and now toothpaste all helped her feel less soiled.
When Claire opened the door to the bedroom, she was startled to see a tray of food waiting on the dining table. Prior to that moment, she ignored the pangs of hunger. God knows the thoughts of the previous night made her stomach turn. Yet the aroma from the covered plate intrigued her. She lifted the lid to discover steaming scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fresh fruit. On the tray, she also noticed a glass of orange juice, one of water, and a carafe of coffee.
With her stomach full, body relaxed from the shower, and no immediate path to freedom, Claire decided she wanted more sleep. It was then that she realized the bed hadn’t only been made, but the sheets had also been changed. The room appeared as though the horror of last night never occurred. Her body told her otherwise. She pulled back the covers, climbed between the soft satin sheets, inhaled the fresh clean scent, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the escape she wanted, but it was a temporary diversion.
The knocking at the door near the sitting area woke Claire. She’d been somewhere in a dream far away. The knock and the unfamiliar surroundings left her temporarily disoriented. How long had she been sleeping? Sunlight, though not as bright, continued to seep from the edge of the drapes. The repeated raps brought her emotions and thoughts dramatically to the present. Fear gripped her being as she considered who was on the other side of the door. Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old adult. Yet at that moment, Claire decided to behave as any five-year-old child would and imitate sleep. Lying still in bed, she heard the door open.
Tentatively opening her eyes, she watched as a woman quietly entered the room. Given Claire’s perspective, it was difficult to tell; but the woman appeared taller than her by a few inches, with salt-and-pepper hair. Claire assumed she was about the age of her mother, had her mother been alive. As the woman approached, Claire decided to speak. “I’m sorry if I’m in your room.”
“No, Ms. Claire, it is your suite, not mine. I am here to help you get ready for dinner. My name is Catherine.”
Claire slowly sat up in amazement. What the hell did she mean get ready for dinner? She was being held prisoner in some luxurious suite, covered in bruises, and this person was supposed to help her get ready for dinner. “I’m not trying to sound ungrateful. But what do you mean ‘ready for dinner’?”
“Mr. Rawlings will be here precisely at 7:00 p.m. for dinner. He expects you to be ready and dressed accordingly. I presumed you might need some assistance.”
At first, Claire couldn’t wrap her mind around the entire scenario. He wanted her dressed for dinner. Who the hell did he think he was? “Listen, if you want to assist me, let me out of here.” Claire did her best to keep her voice from rising another octave, yet the fear of seeing Anthony and the possibility of escape made that all but impossible.
“Ms. Claire, that is not up to me. I am here to assist you as I can.” It didn’t make any sense. Yet in the desperation of the situation, for some reason, Claire believed this lady. Catherine continued, “We only have an hour. Perhaps we could begin with your hair?”
Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head and sighed. Remembering the resolve from her shower, she spoke with a convincing authority. “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire explained the misunderstanding, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”
“Why, miss, they belong to you. Now we really should move along. And even if you do not plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she’d learned to appreciate and tried desperately not to duplicate.
Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to gently brush her hair, deciding she wouldn’t protest Catherine. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.
“There are cosmetics in the drawers in front of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You are very pretty without it, but after sleeping most of the day, I believe it will make you feel better.”
Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.
“Now, miss, that will not help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”
She began to explain to Catherine her desperation, “I don’t want to face him.” But after the first sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but somehow Claire sensed compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so . . . dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I am too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.
Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead a means for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”
Claire shook her head no. “Everything that happened he wanted to happen.”
“Then there is no need for you to be embarrassed. It is when you do something that he doesn’t want you to do. That is when you do not want to face Mr. Rawlings.”
Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply makeup. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.
“Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”
“Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.” Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy. Yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. But once again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he that he even thought he could make such demands and they would be followed?
Catherine assisted Claire with the dress so as not to mess her hair and makeup. Claire vowed to herself this fiasco will be over. I am not sure how or when. But I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear.
Catherine smiled approvingly at Claire as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now I must go. He will be here soon.” The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would . . . Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer around this woman.
“Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?” Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear, the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason only, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”
Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint beep as she left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.
While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased as she heard the faint beep again. He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or perhaps he would leave. He waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two. But slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.
Determined to meet him head-on at his mind game, she used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes, his dark black eyes. They resembled voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.
The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, tasting the nasty bile from earlier.
He grabbed her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark void. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative. “Shall we try this once more.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”
Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she wouldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I am feeling well.” Still holding her chin, he had to feel her body tremble.
He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said, only that the depth of their darkness seemed infinite.
“Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t. At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks. The shock of his touch quickly turned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell . . . ?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, making her forget her words.
“I see you can manage to follow at least one rule. Shall we eat?” His grip loosened as his voice attempted a reasonable tone. Anthony pulled back Claire’s chair at the intimate table. She eyed the display, and her thoughts summed up the scene. It all looks so nice and is such a masquerade.
The food smelled wonderful, but Claire’s stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. She managed a few bites. However, swallowing was difficult. Her anxiety made her mouth dry as cotton. All of her pep talks about standing up to him proved worthless. Instead, she sat politely, playing with her food and nodding attentively.
There was an attempt at conversation. Looking at the dinner, Claire felt that something was missing besides common sense. The young man poured water into the glasses, yet to make the masquerade complete, there should be wine or champagne. It was almost as if he read her mind when Anthony commented, “I do not like to drink alcohol. It inhibits the senses.” She thought immediately how nice it would be to have a fifth of Jack Daniels about now.
Anthony relished her discomfort. “Don’t you like your food?”
“I do. I guess I’m not hungry tonight.”
“I heard you have only eaten breakfast today. I suggest you eat. You will need your strength.” He grinned as he took a bite. His eyes didn’t grin. She used every ounce of energy to remain seated and not run, although the door was shut, and she heard the faint beep when the waiter left.
If she had run, she could have avoided the next horrific hours of her life. Apparently, the night before was only a prelude. Once Anthony finished eating, he stood and took Claire’s hand. Her trembling increased as she stood. He smiled and held her at arm’s length. “Did you choose this dress for the evening?”
“No, it was Catherine.” She remained tall and defiant even though she knew her will would not be considered in his plans.
“Yes, she knows me well. Now take it off.” No sweet talk, no kisses, nothing—just a demand to remove her dress. She didn’t move. She glared first at him and then at the floor.
Taking a deep breath and returning her eyes to his stare, she said, “I think we need to talk about this . . .” He waited for her to obey his command. When it seemed she had other plans, he redirected the conversation. In a sudden movement, the dress fell from her shoulders as he tore the lavish fabric from her body. Claire stood in shock, finding herself wearing only high heels.
“Apparently, you do not remember all the rules. Rule number one is to do as you are told.”
The trembling intensified as tears teetered on her painted eyelids. No words came from her mouth. It was all right. Anthony had other plans for her mouth. He pushed her down, directed her to kneel, and unzipped his pants. She noted immediately that he followed his own rules, no underwear. He didn’t speak but roughly engaged her movement. At first, she thought she would suffocate. She attempted to fight, to back away, but he entwined his fingers in her hair and directed her as he found fit. From there, the evening continued until about one in the morning.
When Anthony finally left the room, Claire threw back the blankets, grabbed the robe, and rushed to the door. Her hand gripped the smooth gray lever and pulled with all her strength. It didn’t budge. She formed a fist and pounded again. Her hand throbbed, yet no one responded. The only answer was an eerie stillness.
Claire reached for something, anything. Finding the vase of flowers, she threw it against the wall. The crystal shattered, showering the wall and carpet with crystal shards and water. The flowers, unable to drink, were scattered on the floor, left to wilt and die. Claire sank to the ground, tears flowing. Succumbing to the exhaustion and desperation, she fell asleep.
The next morning, Anthony entered the suite. The sound of the beep and the opening door startled Claire. She rose to meet his gaze, and their eyes met. He surveyed the suite: a lamp overturned by the bed, a scarf tied to one of the bedposts, and the broken vase near their feet. He smiled. “Good morning, Claire.”
“Good morning, Anthony,” she said with more determination than she’d been able to muster last evening. “I want you to know I have decided to go home. I will be leaving here today.”
“Do you not like your accommodations?” Anthony’s black eyes shone as his smile widened. “I do not believe you will be leaving so soon. We have a legally binding agreement.” He removed a bar napkin from his suit pocket. “Dated and signed by both of us.”
Claire stared astonished as her mind started to turn. This whole situation was so idiotic it couldn’t possibly be real. Who in their right mind thought a bar napkin was a legal agreement? And even if it was, which was like a snowball’s chance in hell, it never gave rights to abuse, demean, or condemn a person to slavery. Dumbfounded, she stared speechless.
Anthony continued, “Perhaps you do not remember. You agreed to work for me, to do whatever I deemed fit or pleasing, in exchange for me paying off all of your debts.”
Claire’s head throbbed. She recalled something of a napkin, maybe a job offer, but it was fuzzy. Besides, she would stay in debt and work double or triple shifts at the bar before agreeing to this!
“Apparently, you have been busy in the last twenty-six years. With education, rent, credit cards, and a car, you have managed to accumulate approximately $215,000 of debt. This agreement was dated March 15, and as with any legally binding agreement, you or I had three days for recession. Today is March 20. I currently own you until your debt is paid. You will not be leaving until our agreement is complete. End of discussion.”
In desperation, her trembling resumed, and she found her voice. “It is not the end of this discussion. This is ludicrous. An agreement doesn’t give you the right to rape me! I am leaving.”
She eyed the door to the hallway, only a few feet away and miraculously left open. Without warning, Anthony’s hand contacted her left cheek and sent her the other direction across the floor. He slowly walked to where she lay. He didn’t bother to bend down, merely looked at her from high above, and repeated, “Perhaps in time, your memory will improve. It seems to be an issue. Let me remind you again, rule number one is that you will do as you are told. If I say a discussion is over, it is over.” Picking up the napkin and placing it in his suit coat pocket, he continued, “And this written agreement states whatever is pleasing to me, means consensual, not rape.”
Still towering over her, he straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. “I have decided that it would be better if you do not leave your suite for a while. Don’t worry. We have plenty of time, $215,000 worth of time.” With that, he turned to leave the suite, the sound of broken crystal echoing from under his Gucci loafers. His controlled, imposing tone terrified Claire more than his words. He spoke with such authority it left her powerless to move or speak.
“I will tell the staff that you may have your breakfast after this crystal is cleaned up.” He disappeared behind the large white door.
Claire heard the beep and the lock as she allowed herself to reach up and touch her stinging cheek. The total silence returned, and she looked at the mess before her. While a small, insignificant protest, she heard herself say, “I would rather starve than clean this up.”
With tears in her eyes and the sound of sniffles, a while later, she found herself crawling around the floor, picking up pieces of crystal. She had most of the large pieces picked up when she noticed the blood on her robe. After investigating, Claire determined that it came from a cut on her hand. She tried unsuccessfully to remove the sliver of crystal from her palm, the blurriness of her vision made the task difficult. Suddenly, the too-familiar beep made her turn toward the door, terrified of Anthony’s return.
