He tucks the keys into his pocket, still smiling that stupid crooked smile, and then steps to the side and points to the cellar door.“Down,” he says.
I walk toward it.I don’t cry.I don’t plead.I don’t look back.I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me unravel.
The cellar steps are steep and smell like damp and old wood.
Before I go down the last stair, I think—oddly—of Hawk telling me he loves me.
I think of myself saying it back.
The basement door closes behind me with a decisive thud.
And everything’s dark.
