Page 39 of Total Exposure

“But why now?”

Jordan sighs, long and loud. “Don’t ask questions, Ix. I don’t really have answers anyway, but even if I did, I don’t think you need to know.”

He ends the call after that. Leaves me hanging like the silence I left him in a few moments before.

I set my phone down and watch her. It’s my job, right? So I watch her. The way her leg sneaks out from under the covers when she gets hot. The way it slips back under when she’s chilled. The way her body occasionally thrashes, like she can’t get comfortable. The way she keeps her eyes closed, either asleep and doing all this unconsciously or just squeezing them shut to keep the world away.

I have the pen and notebook in my hand almost unconsciously. The pen writes of its own accord. Sharp-edged letters printed out in my own hand run across the page like a horse racing for the finish line.

I read it over and over again, then tear the page off, fold it once, and print her name on the front, just like I did earlier.

I have no second thoughts as I get up, punch in the code to unlock the door, and exit my room.

I think of no one but her as I walk across the basement, ignoring the flashing lights of Pac-Man and the digital song of Centipede, and climb the stairs to the main floor.

As I walk down the hallway towards the grand foyer, my attention never falters. I don’t see the chandeliers or the intricate ceiling of the once-ballroom. I take the stairs two at a time, my hand sliding along the smooth banister, and never once compare it to the banister of my childhood.

On the second floor I don’t look right, towards the bedrooms of forgotten children. I see only the open stairs that lead up to the master on the left. My feet know where to go. Know to step lightly as I climb once again, hand on the railing, head tilted up, eyes focused on the double doors ahead.

I don’t even stop when I get to them. Don’t hesitate at all.

They must open for me, like all this was meant to be. Because I’m in her room. Watching her, not on the flat screens of my control room, but here, in person.

If I care if I wake her, it doesn’t show. Because my boots are allowed to thud across the hardwood until they land on the soft rug in front of the bed and go silent. There’s a moment when I imagine myself leaning down to brush the hair out of her face so I can see the contours of her cheekbone. But that passes.

I leave the note on the bedside table and retreat, confident that this is the right way forward.

I’m helping her, I decide, making my way down to the second floor.

She needs this, just like she needed that last note. She’s here for a reason. She wants to get better. She’s strong, and willful, and none of that has helped her so far.

But I can help her.

I know it.

I see what she needs and I’m gonna give it to her. And she’ll accept it because she’s practically my prisoner. She’ll accept it because she won’t be able to stop herself. And when the day comes when she does walk out of this house, healed, and focused, and put back together…

It will be because I didn’t follow directions.

Sleep comes easy when I get back to my room. I strip down to skin, get under the covers, and dream of all the ways I can help her.

All the things I can make her do.

All the holes I can fill inside her.

Chapter Twelve - Jordan

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”

I’m sitting with Chella at the courthouse coffee shop, grabbing a coffee because she just happened to be here at eight-thirty AM and I had no good excuse to blow her off since I don’t need to be in court for another thirty minutes.

I take a sip of my coffee, all casual and shit, and reply, “What’s the deal with you and your mom?”

Chella’s reaction and recovery happen almost simultaneously, but she manages to keep that smile on her face. “She’s dead. You know that.”

“Yeah, and you know that whatever the deal is with Ix and me, it’s none of your business.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I asked Smith about you.”