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He look
s different talking to these people. Sadder, warmer, more compassionate.
He definitely doesn’t look like a killer.
“Auden was deeply loved by this community,” he continues, “And also by my family. Our world has been turned upside down since her devastating death, not only because we miss her but because of these false accusations.”
I focus on my breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“I can assure you, I did not murder Auden Wilder. She was like a sister to me and I would never hurt her.”
I don’t know that I’m crying until Noah wipes a tear away. He’s gentle in a way that surprises me, reaching over and placing a light palm on my cheek, using the other hand to gently brush away the stray tear.
The gesture reminds me of easier times, before everything got so hard. I want to lean into his palm, let the warmth of his skin comfort me. Give up, let Noah take care of me.
Then I remember we’re still in front of the press, putting on a show. I pull my face out of his grip and avert my gaze. Instead, zoning back into his lawyer who is back at the microphone, announcing his crusade.
Noah Bancroft will not be convicted.
Noah has an ankle monitor, a condition of his bail.
One that honestly made me feel safer. But now that I’m back in his clutches, it means I’m also on house arrest alongside him. Not that the mansion he lives in is really a hardship, it’s just the company I’m keeping at the moment that bothers me.
The place is spacious, way bigger than the three bedroom home my family lives in. Every room is at least three times the size of my dorm.
Since the statement, Noah has been locked in a room downstairs with his father and lawyer. Mariam fiddles in the kitchen, probably leaving too much food for us, which is fine because I have no intention of cooking for Noah.
I ditched the black dress as soon as we got back, instead wearing a pair of black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt long enough to cover my ass and the tops of my thighs.
I pull my hair into a ponytail, wipe off the makeup, and slip my feet into a pair of warm socks. Noah had all my things brought into his room while we were gone, but I don’t want them in there.
I check the hallway, to make sure no one is around and then slip out of his room. He told me to stay, commanding me like a dog when he brought me up here after the statement.
I’m not really well behaved.
This house is new to me. A shiny new, gold plated cage he bought to serve his house arrest in. I check every door in the hallway. I find the bathroom, a linen closet, and finally a spare room. It looks well kept, clean, and unused.
It’s a risk to deny him. A constant battle of wondering if he’ll find it cute or sinful.
The latter will most likely earn me a punishment.
There’s not much here that’s mine since I only packed a small bag. I fill it back up with my belongings. Ripping my clothing from the closet, makeup from the dresser, everything of mine I can find. It only takes me two trips to grab my belongings and relocate them to the spare room.
I shove all my items into drawers and the closet, not really caring how organized the room is. I’m not looking for perfection, I just want space. I need to be away from him, further would be better but I’ll take what I can get.
When I’m done, I venture back out into the hallway, still needing to explore the rest of the house. I walk lightly, avoiding making a sound. I don’t think I’ve been so quiet my entire life. The grand staircase leads downstairs to an open living and dining area. The back wall boasts a huge fireplace with tall windows looking out to the backyard and the forest behind it.
The place is cozy, decorated with dark woods, leather, and shades of blue. Noah can’t match to save his life so I know he hired someone to decorate. It’s like dropping pennies for Noah to hire someone to do the things he doesn’t want to. Decorators, chefs, even someone to buy him clothes.
The house is perfect. It’s the type of home I would have dreamed about when we were together. The type of place I hoped we’d grow old in. Even now, I can picture it. The two of us sitting in wooden rocking chairs on the back porch, watching the sunset.
