I’m considering screaming. I’m considering reaching over and grabbing the chain that hangs from my ceiling, calling to Oscar.
Before I can reach for it, Atticus releases a soft breath, and his eyes dart to me.Finally.
“Hey,” I call out. “What’s happening?”
The air around us begins to cool almost immediately, and Atticus closes theBlack Book, which was open to some random page where it rested on his palms.
Atticus watches me for a long moment, his face passive and expressionless even still.
He blinks.
Then, without a smile or a hint of affection, he says, “It’s done. You’ll be okay now.”
Atticus turns on his heel and leaves, sliding the metal chain back into place as he goes.
I sit on my bed, mouth agape, as I listen to his retreating footsteps. As silence engulfs me again, and the air around me chills, I try to make heads or tails of that expression.
And just as I’m giving up, as I’m lying back on my soft pillows and praying to return to my dream of Julian holding me so sweetly, the loudest, most gut-wrenching scream I have ever heard sounds from beneath me.
And it sounds just like Atticus.
Julian
27
CAMERON SAID WE’D FINDanother way, but after we left Chastain Castle, he and Cassie decided not to get involved with the Chastain family’s drama.
This, of course, means I have to figure out how tofind another wayall on my own.
Since we got back two nights ago, I’ve been piddling around the house Abraham lent us, trying not to act suspicious. My dad has no idea I snuck out that night, and he’s been hovering and overly concerned whenever he’s not on his laptop job hunting.
I can’t function like this; I can’t continue with my life ignoring what is happening at Chastain Castle. I need todosomething. Otherwise, I might just fall apart.
Sure, I have concluded that I do not deserve the love that Atlas has for me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. That doesn’t mean I won’t do everything in my power toearnit.
But I can’t earn his affection by sitting around on my ass or working at McDonald’s.
I need to save him.
In the bathroom mirror, I remove the gauze from my face. The stitches will fall out on their own, but I no longer need to hidebehind this itchy cloth, which is nice. I can finally useallof my field of vision again.
I’m grateful it didn’t take my eyeball.
The gash is deep, and it runs from the upper right corner of my forehead, through my eyebrow, and over my eye, ending right before it reaches my nose.
If the new mark—one that will inevitably be a scar—didn’t signify the abuse I know Atlas is still enduring, I would find it kind of amusing that I now look like a villain from a cartoon.
The bruise on my cheek is now a yellowish black instead of purple, which I guess means it’s healing.
I stare at my own reflection: the determination in my eyes and the set of my jaw. An idea is forming in my head, one that can potentially help solve thiscureissue, but could also be a dead end.
I just have to slip past my father.
Getting past Jeremy Walsh proves easier than I expected. He’s on his laptop, doing a Zoom interview for a work-from-home position he’s barely qualified for.
I snatch his truck keys from the kitchen counter and make a break for it. I’ll have questions to answer later, but for now, at least I’ll get the job done.
The drive to Madam Lu’s only takes fifteen minutes.
