“Missus Abigail?” I whisper-shout.
She’s sitting up in her bed, crying softly.
“Something is wrong, Julie,” she sobs.
“What do you—” A loud bang successfully cuts off my words.
It’s coming from above us, the west tower.
“Atty is in trouble; I just know it.” She watches me with wide eyes, her bottom lip trembling.
Nodding, I turn back toward the door. “I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t!” she yells. “You can’t go up there.”
“I won’t,” I lie. “I’ll get Atticus.”
Abigail nods, her blonde hair shifting over her bright green eyes. “Okay. Thank you.”
I slip out of the room, and as I approach the door to the west tower, the air around me rises in temperature so fast that sweat begins to bead across my forehead.
Staring at the dark wooden door, I debate my options. If Idoget Atticus, he’ll guard this door with a solemn expression and Atlas will suffer alone. I have no idea what the rest of the Chastains would do, or what Oscar would say if I fetched him.
My father would surely tell me to mind my business.
As my palm begins to wrap around the doorknob, the metal of it burns me. Ripping my hand back, I pant heavily, staring at it with eyes as wide as Abigail’s were a moment ago.
What the fuck?
“Hngh.”
I hear his groan, muffled and distant, and a moment later, something loud bangs, as if wood has been slammed into a wall.
The door right behind me, the one that now belongs to Atticus, begins to make a clicking noise. He’s coming out.
In a split second, I make my decision. Grasping the burning doorknob, I open the door and slip inside, shutting it gently.
My palm is red and stinging, and the air inside the narrow, unlit hallway is even hotter. A few feet in front of me is a steep staircase that seems to go up forever, but can truly only rise about two stories.
As I take hesitant steps upward, the temperature rises further and further. A part of me is terrified. I have no idea what I’ll find up here. An intruder? A very angry Atlas? Something I can’t even begin to understand?
Yet I cannot leave him to suffer alone. Not again.
“Ahh,” Atlas sounds, louder now, the banging continuing.
My feet begin to move quicker, and some terrible part of me sings at the sound of his voice. It almost sounds as if he’s…moaning.
Suddenly, I’m in front of another door. I’m sweating through my t-shirt, my skin is damp all over, and my breath is leaving me in heavy exhales.
I grasp the doorknob. It hurts.
Slowly, I turn it and push the door open just a crack before ripping my aching hand away.
Something is preventing me from barging in. Some variation of fear and mild interest, as the closer I get, the less this sounds like violence and the more it sounds like rough sex.
Surely not, right? Atlas wouldn’t be… not in his family’s house.
A rage I’m unfamiliar with fills me as the door opens, and the sound of his panting can be heard.
