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Still, I took my shoes off carefully and set them neatly by the door, tucking the laces inside so they didn’t spill onto the floor. After hanging up my drenched jacket, I went into the bedroom to change from the cold, wet clothes into something warm and dry.
I was starved, but the idea of cooking a meal was nearly overwhelming. Grabbing my phone, I sent off a text:Want to grab takeout on your way home?
The reply came through minutes later.No. You’re cooking.
I wilted as I read the reply, my feet dragging as I went into the kitchen. Instead of turning on the overhead light, I clicked on the small light over the stove, casting the kitchen in a dim glow. The only sounds in the apartment were the rain hitting the windows and me cooking a simple meal of spaghetti noodles with ketchup and salad.
The front door opened, and Oskar came inside as I was putting the food on the table.
“Hell of a long day. I need a beer,” he said on his way past.
I went over to the fridge to pull out a beer and set it beside his plate.
“Lars.”
The tone sent a chill down my spine, making me freeze in place.
I glanced toward the hallway where his voice echoed from the bedroom.
He appeared in the doorway a second later, spearing me with flat eyes. “You gonna make me call you again?”
“What’s the matter?” I said, forcing myself forward as I racked my brain, wondering what he could have seen, what I forgot to do that would bring out that tone.
He was in the bedroom doorway when I drew close, and I couldn’t see past his bulky frame to look inside the room. He stood there staring, his silent, ominous presence making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“I take good care of you. Don’t I, Lars?”
My stomach clenched, and dread made my feet heavy. “The best,” I said, forcing myself to smile and using the last of my effort to make sure that smile didn’t seem strained.
“Is it really so much for me to ask to have a homecooked meal and a clean apartment at the end of the day?”
“No.”
His hand shot out, grabbing the back of my head and yanking me forward. I swallowed down the gasp and kept my face calm. His fingernails bit into my scalp like daggers cutting into flesh.
“Yet you ask me to bring home takeout.” He held me so close I could feel his hot breath. “And you leave the bedroom a mess.”
My eyes rounded. “I didn’t.”
Anger flared to life in his face, and he threw me over the threshold into the room. I stumbled, catching myself on the end of the bed.
“You have the nerve to argue? To lie to my face!” he spat.
I straightened and turned just as he threw out his arm to point at my wet shirt draped over the back of a chair, my equally wet jeans lying in a heap on the tile beneath it.
“They were wet.” I defended myself. “I was letting them dry before putting them—”
Crack!The hard slap resonated around the room. The side of my face turned hot from the warm rush of blood.
“Oskar…” I tried to reason with him, but even as I spoke, I wondered why I bothered.
Smack!Another open-handedslap across my cheek rocked my head to the side. The coppery taste of blood coated my tongue, and I swallowed, but the taste remained.
“How many times have I told you that I will not tolerate this kind of mess? Your clothes should be neatly folded at all times.”
“But—”
“At. All. Times.”
