Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The very idea of it sets me over the edge. There’s nothing I can do to silence my groan as I release myself into her panties.

I hunch over and pant, then hold my breath when she turns over and pulls the blanket over her shoulder. My high doesn’t last long.

On her bedside table is the reason why Bella is dead to the world: Xanax.

Why is she taking it? How long has she been taking it? What the hell happened to her that she had to start taking prescription medication?

Annoyance zips through me as I glance at the window. What if it wasn’t me who climbed through it? Putting a chair under her door handle will stop anyone from inside getting to her, but the ones on the outside are the real threat.

People like me.

My irritation flares as my lust-blind mind finally clears, and I notice more of her room. There are drawings on the walls, just like before I left.

I tuck myself back into my pants, pocket the panties, and take a closer look. They’re drawings, alright. Not mine—hers.

Where my pen strokes are harsh, her graphite lines are soft. The proportions of the faces are spot-on, and the shading is blended and smooth. It’s realistic—far better than my drawings.

I’m not sure if I should be jealous.

Okay, I am. Just a little.

Before I left, she wouldn’t draw anything but the occasional doodle. Now she’s out here sketching like she’s been doing it since birth? I’m proud, but what the fuck? Who taught her how to draw like this, because it sure as hell wasn’t me?

I pull myself away from the drawings and investigate the rest of the room. Other than the art and the supplies, nothing in this room has changed.

Oh, and the Xanax. Couldn’t forget about those. I consider throwing the pills away. Though, she could just refill. But that’s money she wouldn’t spend on food or things for herself.

Later, I think to myself.

Soon, she’ll know I’m back and coming for her. Then, I’m going to find out why she’s been ignoring me.

And if she has, she’s going to regret it.

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Chapter 14

ISABELLA

The Day of the Incident

Roman: 22 years old – Isabella: 20 years old.

It’s my birthday today.

Not that anyone remembers.

It’s not like it matters anyway.

I'm three years older than when Roman left, but I feel I’ve aged at least ten years. They always said there is nothing worse than growing older, and I will live life chasing my youth, wishing for the day when I could drink as much as I want, party, and wake up without responsibilities.

I never had those four things, so I don’t long for them. Sometimes I miss the girl I was when Mickey was around. The one who was delirious and incapable, who questioned everything in the name of insecurity, but nothing that really mattered.

It’s kind of pathetic that I haven’t felt a glimmer of happiness since the day he disappeared, and there doesn’t seem to be any joy waiting for me in my future.

What’s even more pathetic is wishing he’d taken my virginity before he left so it could be forever immortalized as the day I lost everything.

“Thank you, love,” the customer, who has been eyeballing me since he walked into the store, says when I hand him the receipt. He drops his business card and smirks. “You should call me sometime.”

I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

He nods. When the door rings shut behind him, I drop his card in the trash without reading it. I found that one word works best. Thanks. Short, sharp, to the point. Say too much, and they think you’re leading them on. Say the wrong thing, and they might kill you.

The joys of womanhood.

Marcus is getting bolder with his advances every passing day. It’s only a matter of time until groping doesn’t cut it, then he’ll take another part of me I’ll never get back.

He’s developed even more entitlement now that I’m no longer property of the state. I live under his family’s roof without paying rent. In exchange, I work at this crappy hardware store while Marcus and Greg work in the garage next door.

I want to leave. With every fiber of my being, I want to escape this horrible family and abominable city and never turn back. The only thing holding me back is the knowledge that, if I leave, there’s no one to look after Jeremy. Millie is too busy most of the time, Greg and Marcus won’t take care of him, and the state isn’t doing jack about it, no matter how much I complain.

I’m losing more battles than I can win.

Scratch that; I don’t think I’ve won a single battle in a long time.

One day, I’ll get out of this god-forsaken city. I don’t know when, how, or where I will go, but anywhere is better than here. I’ll monetize any hobby I have, whether it’s knitting, painting, or sculpting. I’ll keep building on doing drawing commissions, and hope one day it’ll be enough for something.

I may not have any college plans like Roman did with fixing up motorbikes and cars, but I have my own aspirations… of sorts. I want to live a life with a full heart. As immeasurable as it is, I’ll know when I get there.

If I don’t, I’ll be a girl wasting away at a hardware store owned by a predator.

With no one needing me at the counter, I return to stocking the shelves. The place is rundown, with dreary brick walls and linoleum floors. The only good thing about the store is the big bay windows—with safety bars—mainly because of its metaphorical appearance. I pretend I’m outside, under the sun, and not a caged bird.

My days are monotonous. Wake up, make breakfast for everyone, work, make dinner for everyone, sleep, then repeat. But there are good days, too. Those are when someone pays cash, and I manage to pocket some of it without anyone being any wiser. Not much, though; five dollars here and there. Better than nothing when it’s the only money I’m saving after buying food.

Stale cigarette smoke and diesel fuel assault my senses, and bile lurches up my throat when Marcus grabs my ass.

“These jeans suit you,” he purrs in my ear.

The blood rushes from my body. He puts his arm on the shelf by my head, caging me in.

“One day, you’re gonna want me back.” He pushes his body against me, and I cringe back as far into the shelf as I can possibly go.

“I need to work,” I whisper, forcing myself not to gag.

He disgusts me. Just because I live under his roof—his parents’ roof—doesn’t give him any right to put his hands on me. But I can’t do a thing about it. I can’t push him or tell him to stop. I can’t scold him or give him a piece of my mind.

I slapped his hand away once, so he gave me a black eye in return.

He’s a pig. The weakest people are the ones who lash out when they get rejected. That’s another thing I’ve learned now that Roman isn’t shielding me from the world. I don’t forgive him for leaving, but it was the wake-up call I needed.

“You aren’t working tonight.” Marcus presses the bulge in his pants against my ass. “In fact, your bed’s been pretty empty. You must be getting cold at night; I can warm it up for you.”

I’d rather walk naked through the Arctic.

One day, he’s going to break the bedroom door down, and my makeshift barricade won’t stop him.

I swallow. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Why do these men need to be coddled when being turned down? Why do I need to be polite when they’re the ones who started it? Can’t I just say ‘no’?

Sorry, I’m alright, thanks.

Thank you for your offer, but I’ll have to decline.

Please don’t touch me—because you can’t simply say don’t touch me.

I hiss through my teeth when he fists my hair and yanks my head back. “You’re going to stop saying no very soon, slut.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from lashing out.

When she wants it, she’s a slut.

When she doesn’t want it, she’s a slut.

The biggest insult men like him can muster is telling a woman exactly what he thinks she is: an object that can be debased to the holes she has.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

And fuck Roman for leaving me here to deal with all this shit.

Marcus shoves me away as if I was the one who infringed on his space. I yelp and right myself before I lose my footing. My lungs fill with air, but it feels more like razor blades. And because I don’t have a choice, I have to smile at customers and go about the rest of my day pretending I didn’t just get assaulted. I have to live with this acceptance. I’m angry, but this is how my life is for now. I will get out eventually.

I used to think I was weak because of the stutter in my heart or the way it never feels whole. I thought I was defective somehow, like when God was making me, he shipped me off without putting me together the way he should.

It took losing Roman to realize I’m a survivor in my own way. Because this is what survivors do: they keep walking even if the sun is blazing or the sky cracks with lightning and rumbles with thunder. One foot in front of the other until, eventually, you can’t walk anymore.

My heart is still broken, but I’ve let the shadows take up the empty space and gave it a name: Rage.

The phone rings, and I groan internally. I fumble with my mandatory work apron until my fingers wrap around the indestructible plastic brick. “Good afternoon, Barfoot’s Hardware Store; how can I help?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

I know this game. No one is going to respond.

“Are you there?”

Nothing.

I shake my head and hang up. I’ve gotten a call like this almost every day for months. I don’t hear any breathing like in the movies, nor weird static. Just silence.

Whenever I consider snapping at whoever is on the other side, I think better of it. With my luck, it could be one of Marcus’s buddies trying to mess around and get me in trouble. So, I smile without my eyes and talk softly even when I want to throw up in my mouth and scream.

My own phone starts buzzing in my pocket. “Jeremy, is everything okay?” I say, answering the phone and checking to make sure no one is in the store.

“Yes.” The speaker crackles with his sigh. “I’m doing my twice-daily check in.”

I heard from him this morning when he wished me happy birthday and promised to make me breakfast once he's back. “Have they been feeding you properly? Are you warm enough? That teacher has stopped giving you a hard time, right?” I ramble on.

“Just like I told you yesterday, yes.” His disinterest in this conversation is clear. “I’m fifteen, not five. I can take care of myself.”

It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard from him. If it weren’t for me giving him my food portions and bedding, he’d be both starved and cold. Nor would he have a life if I didn’t do most of his work in the shop. Or deal with Greg’s belt on his behalf, and help him with his homework, and make sure he has clothes on his back.

He’s fifteen and completely oblivious to everything I do for him. But I wouldn’t change any of it if it means he laughs along with friends as he walks home, and he goes to sleep without bruises, not worrying about what the next day brings.

I refuse to end up like Millie, completely dead inside. But I refuse to let Jeremy grow up thinking he doesn’t know what it feels like to be safe and loved.

I clear my throat. “What did you do today?”

That question seems to change his tone. “They made us do woodwork, so I made you a birdhouse. I painted it white so you can draw something on it. We also went—”

“Yo, Jeremy, pass the drugs,” someone yells in the background.

“Shut up, man, I’m talking to my sister,” Jeremy hisses at one of his friends, who bursts into a fit of laughter. “We went—oi, fuck off.” I pull the phone away from the loud shuffling noises that go on for a solid ten seconds. “I’ll call you later,” he pants like he’s just been wrestling someone.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“I’ll be good, I’ll—dude, I’m gonna beat your—” The line goes dead.

I shake my head and continue stacking the shelves. Nothing else of note happens as the hours roll by. Every day that passes seems to take longer than the last. When closing time finally arrives, I clean up, lock the door behind me, and pull the gate down to prevent any break-ins. Then, autopilot kicks in, and my legs take me home.

I pull my coat around me tighter. My feet are aching, and my back is killing me. The last thing I want to do is make dinner for Millie, Greg, and Marcus, but this is my life. I can hear my bed calling for me all the way from here. But even after everyone’s plates are piled and tomorrow’s lunch is made, I still have a commission waiting for me.

I’m behind on one of my character arts, and I kick myself every time I put it off. It’s the only joy in my day, but sometimes I’m too tired to even breathe, let alone draw. It started as a passion project, and now it seems more like a chore on top of everything else.

The sound of scuffed boots, followed by movement from the corner of my vision, snags my attention. I whip my head around, my heart pounding in my ear. A hooded figure decked in black follows from one hundred yards away, partially illuminated by the flickering streetlamp. His stature looks familiar. A customer, maybe? That doesn’t make this any better.

I walk faster as my pulse ticks up a notch. I know better than to zone out walking home at night. I’m too scared to turn around and alert whoever’s behind me.

What if I’m being dramatic? What if we both happen to be walking in the same direction? But alarm bells are going off in my head, and my gut tells me to sprint. Still, there’s that nagging voice in my head, though, saying, what if you’re imagining it?

Just like I’ve imagined the feeling of being watched every day for the past who knows how long. Or how my clothes are disappearing—like I couldn’t find my favorite shirt two weeks ago, and my good jeans have mysteriously vanished. Even things I swore I put away find themselves on the top of my table.

I fish my phone out of my pocket. I have no one else to call but the police, and they wouldn’t get here in time. No one would. I’m on my own for this one. The reality of my helplessness has me picking up my pace as I thread my keys between my knuckles.

The sound of footsteps behind me grows louder. Whoever is following me is quickening, matching my pace. That’s my answer. I’m not overthinking. I break into a run, and so does he. Heavy boots pound down the pavement behind me, and I push myself faster.

No, no, no. I’m not ready to die.

Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t I notice him sooner?

Another set of steps joins the first pair, and I push myself faster. Two people are chasing me. Two. I don’t make it far before my lungs burn from exertion. Not once do I turn around to check how close they are. I don’t exercise enough to trust that I won’t lose my footing.

I turn down another street. Even though I can’t hear them anymore, I don’t stop until I’m in front of the house. My wheezing breaths come out in big clouds of smoke. Only then do I glance back at the empty road. Who were they? Will they come back? What if it happens again and I can’t run fast enough?

I try and fail to get a hold of myself before I stumble inside, locking the door behind me with trembling hands, and checking it three times. Millie has started on dinner, and Greg is already in the lounge, beer in hand, while zoning out in front of the TV. Marcus is—I have no idea where he is. Locked away in his room, hopefully. Maybe I can get away with not seeing him at all.

Everyone in the house is completely oblivious to what just happened. I should call the cops or tell somebody. But who’s going to care? Who’s going to believe me?

The world seems to spin as I bolt up the stairs without a backward glance, passing Jeremy’s empty room on the way to mine. Nothing makes me feel any semblance of ease until the door to my room is shut. I lean against the wood and force myself to count to ten.

My heart still hammers away in my ribcage, and I’m worried it’s going to break bone if I don’t get a handle on myself. Adrenaline crashing makes me sway. My exhaustion isn’t just bone-deep anymore; I can feel it in my soul. I love Jeremy, but staying here is going to kill me.

I shiver from the cool breeze drifting through the room. With a defeated sigh, I push off the door and flick on the light. I alternate using my hands to rub my eyes and tug my jacket down my arms.

I blink away the fireworks exploding behind my lids, then stiffen.

A heart-shaped locket lies in the middle of my desk. The same one I took off a year after he disappeared. I haven’t so much as looked at it since.

I didn’t put that there.

I locked that thing away so I’d never see it again.

How the hell did it get there? Who came inside my room?

Rushing to the other side of the room, I yank open the closet door and drop to my knees to rummage around the bottom shelf, searching for the familiar fabric. When I can’t feel it, I pull everything out and go through every single article of clothing. Roman’s jersey isn’t there.

Marcus wouldn’t have known or cared that I hid it in Roman’s hoodie. Millie wouldn’t have been worried enough to do anything that doesn’t serve her immediate family, Greg wouldn’t have gotten off his ass for anything, and Jeremy isn’t home.

If someone broke into the house, surely they’d steal stuff of value? Not… not something this specific, something just in my room. Did I sleepwalk or something?

“Isa, hurry up,” Millie yells from downstairs.

I inhale sharply. “Coming.”

My body clicks in three places when I haul myself onto my feet. As my back muscles protest, I do my best to ignore the ache. It’s easy to ignore when my mind is still reeling from the appearance of the necklace.

I’ll figure it out later.

I drag my feet to the door and cast a longing look at my bed. For the third time tonight, every inch of my body seizes.

Because on my bed are two Mickey Mouse plush toys.

One that my mother gave me and one I’ve never seen before.

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Chapter 15

ROMAN

The Day of the Incident

“You did something very stupid.” I grin.

The guy claws at my arm, gasping for breath. “I don’t know—"

I tsk, silencing him as I tighten my hold around his neck, making the red hue of his face darken. “I think you do know. Should I give you a hint?” He nods, slapping at my arm in a useless attempt to make me let up. “You spoke to a mouse just now. Do you know what else you did?”

He blinks, then his eyes widen in realization. “Look, man, I didn’t know she was taken. If I had known, I wouldn’t have given her my number. I’m sorry, I—"

“Will never speak to her again,” I finish for him, pushing my weight forward. “If you do…” I hum. “Do I need to finish that sentence, or do you understand what I’m saying?”

He nods frantically against my hand.

“Good,” I mutter as I let go.

He hunches over and gulps in greedy breaths. I kick him once in the gut for good measure. Then punch him in the face for the hell of it.

“Fuck off. Make sure I never see you again.”

A chorus of yeses falls out of his mouth as he scurries away, staggering and limping, leaving behind his shopping bag.

Fucking idiot.

With him sorted, I take my place by the empty house across from the store and wait for the time to crawl by.

My mood sours even more once I look inside the shop. If I thought my blood was boiling before, it’s nothing compared to watching Marcus feel Bella up. Every inch of me is screaming to storm inside and murder him with the shit inside his own store. But that would ruin the plan. These past three months have been the greatest exercise of my patience and ability to resist my impulses. Finally, everything is set up for her, and I’ve found a place for Jeremy.

I mean, sometimes I don’t resist at all. Even so, it’ll all be worth it because tonight’s the night everything changes.

Marcus finally dies.

After years, she will be back in my arms. I’m sick of watching her from a distance and hearing her voice through a phone. I’ll get to actually talk to her. I want to touch her and have her touch me back. I want to have a goddamn conversation with her. Most of all, I want her out of that house and away from that miserable family.

Tonight, all my wishes are coming true.

I’ve made one fantastic discovery, though. My princess doesn’t have a boyfriend. Never has, never will—other than me, of course. Not like it was an issue in the first place. It just means she won’t cry over anyone if I take them out of the picture. There’s only room for the two of us from now on.

The light coming from the store gives me a clear view of Bella—she’s not Pigtails, because she has her hair down more often than not lately.

She moves behind the till, and my chest squeezes. Out of all the things she’s done to scrub me out of her life, the fact that she isn’t wearing my necklace hurts the most. She hid it away like I’m a dirty secret she wants to forget all about.

The only reason I haven’t slipped it around her neck while she’s asleep is because she’s still wearing the bracelet. It’s one of my few assurances that she hasn’t forgotten about me, and she’s still hanging on, even just by a thread. It isn’t like I’d ever let her forget about me, anyway.

I’ve been taunting her with reminders of me. I expected her to squirm or dart around with fear burning in her eyes, but she just looks… hurt? Why the hell would she be the one to feel hurt in all of this? She’s the one who ignored all my letters. She’s the one who completely ghosted me. I’m the one who’s hurt. Not her.

The lights go out in the store, and seconds later, she’s coming out of the front of the shop. Bella starts walking in the direction of her house, head drooping with exhaustion, unaware of any surrounding threats.

I follow behind her, not so close that she can see me, but not so far that I can’t see her.

My skin prickles with irritation when I spot someone else following her. It seems that an asshole with a death wish thinks it’s a good idea to go near my girl.

Bella glances back and quickens her pace. The fucker following her does the same. He’s really just trying to make my night, isn’t he?

I smile in my excitement. The more violence, the merrier.

My blood runs hot as I close the distance, and Bella chooses that exact moment to start running. So does he.

Fucking hell.

I guess I need to sprint, too, then. They don’t exactly have treadmills in prison, and running laps around the yard isn’t quite the same as chasing someone into the pitch-black night. Now, I’m working on pure adrenaline. The exhilaration is intoxicating, and every one of my senses is heightened and focused on my prey.

Preys. Plural.

I bound along the pavement, no longer avoiding the light from lampposts. I have to push myself harder. He’s fast—probably hearing me behind him—but I’m surprised Bella’s even faster. I’d put that to being chased by two people.

When I near him, I crouch lower, and with a burst of energy, I tackle him to the ground. There’s no one around to witness the fight. His hood falls back during his attempt to push me off him, and I kick my leg out, knocking his hand out from under him. Gripping his hair, I use the force of his fall to slam his face into the concrete.

I’m mildly disappointed by how easy it is. Why does no one put up a decent fight?

He groans, and I shut him up by slamming him again. Straddling him around his midsection, I lean down to wrap my arms around his throat. He gasps for breath and wiggles as I move closer to him to put him in a headlock.

This was easy. Too easy.

I don’t notice his leg move until I’m thrown onto my back with a huff. My hold on his neck doesn’t let up until his elbow makes contact with my ribs. Pain thunders through my side, loosening my hold on him. He takes advantage of the opening and breaks out of my grip.

“Fucking cunt,” he growls as he turns, lifting his fist.

I laugh and lunge for him before he can punch me, and we both roll around on the ground like prepubescent children trying to get the upper hand. I manage to get him under me once more, laying hit after hit. If his face was bloody before, red is the only color on his skin now.

He doesn’t stop trying to block me or push me off. Still, my attacks keep coming, one fist right after the other. Fury fuels each of my movements until his body goes limp, and he stops breathing.

I hiss from the pain in my side as I pull myself onto my feet. “Dickhead,” I mutter and kick him in the ribs as payback. Looking around, I try to find a place to stash his body. The last thing I need is a bunch of cops snooping around the area because of him. That would put a kink in my plans.

I spot a rose bush behind us belonging to the nicest property on the block, shrugging to myself. I guess that’s good enough.

Keeping an eye out for witnesses, I drag him by his hoodie into the shadows behind the roses. I made a mistake once about not checking for witnesses. I won’t do it again. Shoving him under the rose bushes, I try to cover his body as much as possible. Whoever’s grandma lives here better not look out the window tomorrow morning. Let’s hope someone else finds his body first; if not… Rest in peace, Grandma.

A light layer of sweat clings to my back by the time I have him hidden away, and I’m itching to get back to staring at Bella. I crack my neck and head toward her house. She doesn’t realize how long I’ve been waiting to make her all mine. I stop in my tracks right where I pummeled the guy into the concrete with a sudden thought:

Roses. Bella likes roses.

With the minimal light of a singular streetlamp, I pick the first flower I can somewhat see. I move closer to the lamppost and use my sleeve to wipe the man’s blood off the petal. My feet automatically keep taking me in the direction I want to go while I focus on breaking off all the thorns.

I reach my car first, laying the flower on the backseat in exchange for my bag of supplies. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a skip in my step as I make the short trip to Bella’s house, where I plant myself across the street.

And now I wait.

I tap my fingers in no particular rhythm on my leg, then bounce my foot on the ground. Bella’s going to regret ignoring me, Marcus will regret touching her, and Greg will regret being a useless, perverted piece of shit.

As I stand and wait, the light from the TV flashes behind the curtains downstairs. Right above it, the lamp in Marcus’s room is on. Excitement burns beneath my skin and grows the second the lights in Bella’s room go off.

What I should do is wait for another half an hour until I’m sure she’s asleep. Again, that’s what I should do. Without a second thought, I cross the street. In a matter of seconds, my feet are on the porch railing, and I’m pulling myself up onto the awning. Her window is wide open; there’s no way she won’t hear me.

Quietly, I crawl up the side of the house, closer to her room. I’m counting the seconds until she sticks her head out and catches me, but it never happens. I frown, thinking she isn’t in there. Peeking inside, I relax when I hear the sound of her steady breaths.

It’s too early for her to be asleep. The thought that she worked herself to the bone today and fell asleep an hour earlier than usual unsettles me. From now on, that’s going to change. She’ll never have to work again if she doesn’t want to. If being a trophy wife is the life she wants, then being a trophy wife is the life she’ll have.

I help myself inside while keeping my footsteps light once my boots hit the floor. Her face is hidden beneath the covers, so I can’t stare at her as I wait for the rest of the neighborhood to go to sleep.

Pulling out an empty duffle bag, I start piling her things into it. I pause after each sound I make, but she doesn’t stir. With the bag nearly full, I leave it behind the door and make my way to the empty space next to her.

I don’t take my eyes off the back of her head as I unlace my boots and slip beneath the sheets. The single bed creaks and barely manages to fit us both. For the first time, she actually stirs from her sleep. Just not how I expected her to. She turns over and settles herself up against my chest. The top of her head brushes the bottom of my chin as she cuddles into my shoulder. I smile to myself and wrap my arms around my sleeping princess. Her body still knows who I am.

I press my lips against her forehead, whispering, "Happy birthday, Bella."

Over the months, I’ve touched her face and her arms, but I’ve denied myself this. First, it was just soft brushes on her arm and stroking her hair. I was worried about waking her up, but I have become more bold over time. It's like she's dead to the world.

If I hold her, I won’t stop wanting more. Even now, keeping my hands to myself is impossible when she feels like pure temptation, a sin of the highest power.

I keep asking myself why she didn’t respond to any of my letters. Even at the risk of having Greg or Marcus open her mail, I sent them all here. She’s not the type to ignore me, so why did she? Did she even try looking for me?

We stay like that even when Marcus starts snoring. I don’t peel myself away from her until it’s well into the early hours of the morning, ensuring there wouldn’t be a soul around that’s awake. She follows me as I pull away, and I have to stop myself from lying back down and putting my plans off for another day.

Thinking it’ll help me with my resolve, I force myself to turn my back on her and put my shoes back on. My plan backfires when I realize her intoxicating scent is everywhere, making me breathe through my mouth like a goddamn animal. It’d be so easy to crawl back under the blanket and feel her little body pressed against mine. She does something to my head even when she isn’t doing anything.

I move through the room so I don’t get caught up again, fastening my mask and gloves and throwing the bag over my shoulder. Bella’s makeshift barricade scrapes against the floor, instigating a cringe from the sound. I keep pulling on the door until everything she piled up is out of the way. Now the door’s open, and there’s nothing left to stop me.

It’s showtime.

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