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Isabelle was dead.
Soft tears fell down my cheeks. She’d been a maternal figure to me and the last connection I had to my own mother. She wasn’t always kind, but she’d saved me during one of my weakest moments. It was strange to resent her and mourn her all at once. She’d brought me back here. She’d sent me away.
And now she was gone.
My lips were chapped, and I was breathing heavily. My tongue felt like it was three times its normal size.
I looked out the window once more. Atticus lived on the top floor of a tall tower overlooking all the people of Aldrich. He was a king in his own right with this view. I wore one of his button-up shirts, and I traced the hem with my index finger, wondering who changed my clothes, who bandaged my arm, and why I was locked inside.
I needed a phone. August and Leo were probably worried sick about me.
Or maybe they were in on this too? Maybe it wasn’t safe?
Maybe something had happened to them.
There wasn’t a damn television in the bedroom, and I had no phone, no belongings whatsoever. I hated not knowing what was going on, and the pounding in my head got worse with each second.
I felt trapped.
I hated feeling trapped.
As I knelt low on the ground, I listened for sounds outside, steadying my breathing. Crawling over to the nightstand, I suddenly realized I needed a weapon.
Hudson’s words flickered through my mind. You should always have a weapon, Christine. If you can’t find one, make one.
I grabbed the framed photo and broke the glass on the ground, the shards scattering and digging into the carpet. The photo of Atticus and me looked even more unperfect. Blurred. Cracked.
Wrong.
I grabbed the biggest piece of glass and clenched it in my fist, letting the sharp edge dig into my palm. Crimson blood dripped down my wrist as I pressed my back against the wall and waited.
And waited.
The sun started to set, and my stomach growled. Moody twilight cast warm light in his room, the edge of darkness seeping in my soul.
Isabelle was dead.
I didn’t know where August or Leo were. If they were alive. If they were injured.
My hold on the glass tightened, sending a fresh wave of blood onto the floor, staining Atticus’s shirt. Staining my heart.
My vision was blurry from tears, and my eyes watered faster than I could blink them away. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears, my breath rattled in my lungs. “I have to get out of here,” I said to no one. My voice sounded like I’d swallowed a handful of rocks. Fat tears fell slow and heavy, taking with them chunks of my will and desire to live.
When the doorknob twisted, my eyes glazed over into that numb familiarity that saved my life three years ago. “Christine?”
Atticus stormed inside and circled the bed. When he found me sitting on the floor and covered in blood, a fiery determination took over his expression. He was covered head to toe in ash, his pristine suit damn near ruined from the cinders. His curly hair was an ashy gray from all the debris, and the smudges of dirt blended in with the tattoos creeping up his neck. “What happened?”
His strong hand wrapped around my wrist, forcing me to release the glass. It landed on the carpet, and my eyes sliced up to his. “I felt trapped,” I whispered. “Where were you? What happened? Are August and Leo okay? Is Isabelle…” The more I spoke, the more my throat hurt. Another painful cough erupted and Atticus placed his hand on my back as I hacked.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice low and concerned. “Christine, I’m so sorry.” He lowered himself onto the floor, pulling me into his arms. It was a natural reaction, needing a familiar place to brace myself. His arms circled me, his hand stroking my back in slow, steady circles. The warmth of his body soaked into my skin, and I leaned against his chest, taking in his scent. He smelled like ash and burnt wood, smoke and death. His hand on my back felt so good, soothing me. Protecting me. “Isabelle died in the fire. It was fast. She didn’t suffer.” His voice was like a gentle caress. “August and Leo are fine,” he said, his tone keeping my heart from exploding in my chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Isabelle,” I said, closing my eyes. I could picture her face so well, as if she were sitting in front of me. She was always so calm, so gentle. “Isabelle is dead,” I repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it real.
“You sound terrible. I’ll have my personal doctor come back and listen to your lungs. I’m worried…”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. “Is that who did this?” I asked while holding up my bandaged arm.
He stared at my arm as if my injuries personally offended him. “Yes. Have you eaten the food I left for you? Drank any water?”
