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I hear the doorbell ring on his end. “I have to go,” Abel says.
“Is it him? Santiago?”
“I can’t see through closed doors, can I? Don’t call me, I’ll call you. You just stay put. Do not go anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
He disconnects the call, and I busy myself opening the frozen dinner. I pop it into the microwave and look out the window onto the big, empty lot of the fenced-in backyard with its brown grass while it cooks. The clouds have darkened, the first drops of rain falling, and my gaze shifts from the garden to my own reflection.
My sister was right. I look bad.
I touch a hand to my stomach, turn sideways even though I know it’ll still be flat. I’m having a baby. Santiago’s baby.
And some part of me knows no matter what he won’t just let me walk away. He will hunt me down. He would do it even if I wasn’t pregnant.
So why is Abel helping me? Why risk it? Why when he must know Santiago will win. He always does.
I blink away from my reflection as the microwave dings. I’m not hungry anymore but I take the lasagna out and force myself to eat it, burning my tongue on the too-hot sauce.
I just need some time to think. To figure this out. Make a plan.
Because I have no doubt Santiago will come for me and I have to be ready for him when he does.
37
Ivy
I think about what Abel said, that it’s Dad’s house. Dad doesn’t have a house apart from the one we lived in.
Although I remember the picture in his wallet from when I was little. The beautiful woman. The one I didn’t know.
Was my dad having an affair and keeping this house for that affair?
In addition to the living and dining rooms and the kitchen on the first floor is a small office. There’s no light in there, though, and the windows are boarded up, so I leave it alone.
Upstairs are three small, sparse bedrooms. Only one has a proper bed in it. I guess it’d be the master. There’s one bathroom with a tiny shower. On the shelf is a worn-down bar of soap, and under the sink is a package of men’s razors and shaving cream.
The two bedrooms are empty except for two twin-size mattresses laid on the floor of each. But if they’ve been used, it’s very gently. In the small linen closet in the hallway, I find folded sheets in pinks and yellows and a couple of towels. Nothing fancy. More leftover things picked up here and there, but everything smells clean at least.
I carry the sheets into the master to make the bed, but I keep thinking about Dad. I sit down on the edge of it and look across to the chest of drawers. Leaving the sheets on the bed, I get up and go to it, opening the first drawer. I find it empty, as I expect. Same with the second.
The third one is jammed, and when I manage to tug it out, I almost fall backward from the force and hear something clatter to the back of the drawer. I’m more careful when I pull it farther, and for a moment, I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is right.
My heart races as a chill covers my skin with goose bumps.
I reach in and take out the bracelet. It’s a small gold chain with a name written in cursive across a narrow gold bar. I know this bracelet. I have one just like it. It’s at home. Eva has one too. I don’t know if she wears hers, though. I don’t wear mine. I stopped the day Hazel left.
I brush my thumb over the name inscribed on the bar.
Hazel.
And beside it the symbol that I hate. IVI.
A gift for the daughters of The Society. Like we’re all some big, creepy family. They give them to the parents with each female birth. My parents kept extending the chain as we grew, proud that we were Society’s daughters.
This is Hazel’s. She never took hers off. Never.
Was she here?
I slip the bracelet around my wrist and close the clasp.
Was Hazel here? And did Dad know?
Suddenly no longer tired, I go downstairs. There was a flashlight in one of the drawers in the kitchen. I get it and switch it on. It’s a good one. Strong. I walk to the small study and open the door. I shine the light over the interior, see the messy desk that’s too big for this tiny house, too grand. I see the worn Chesterfield against the far wall. The empty bottle of whiskey in the trashcan, the one that’s only a third full on the desk beside a tumbler with whiskey residue inside it.
I roll the chair back behind the desk and sit down, shining the light over the top of the desk, opening folders and peering at the papers inside. But they don’t mean anything to me, and honestly, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Well, I guess I am. I want to see if there’s more evidence of Hazel having been here. I want to know if this is truly Dad’s house.
