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She hands me her phone, with the front-facing camera open. A violent purple welt cloaks my Adams’ Apple.
“Did I give you a hickey?” Eleanor asks, clearly horrified.
But the bruise doesn’t look like a hickey; it looks like a thumbprint like someone wrapped their hand around my neck and squeezed.
“There’s a scratch on your face, too,” Eleanor says, “You’re bleeding.”
She runs into the bathroom and retrieves an antiseptic cream. She cleans my wound with a delicate hand, then puts a Band-Aid across it. The scratch is a jagged line from my eye to my nose. It stings the most beneath my eyes.
“I’m trying to make sure your eyelashes don’t get caught in the Band-Aid,” she whispers before adding, “You have such nice eyelashes.”
I don’t know what was in bed with me this morning, but it wasn’t Eleanor. Her touch is featherlight. I struggle to picture her hurting a fly, let alone clawing at my flesh.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You might need more concealer for that bruise; want me to do your makeup?” she jokes.
“Sure,” I say. I check the clock on the bedside table; it’s just past 10 A.M., but I’m feeling defeated and drained. I want to sleep for a thousand years. My limbs feel heavy. I’m struggling to differentiate between dreaming and waking.
Eleanor returns with her compact full of concealer and gently coats my neck in powder. “You look tired,” she whispers.
“Well, you did keep me up all night,” I try to joke; it dissolves into a yawn.
“You should take the day off,” she whispers.
“I can’t. The floors for the attic are coming today,” I say. I heft myself up and slip into a pair of fresh boxers and some clean clothes. I try to focus on the present as I brush my teeth. Eleanor watches anxiously from the doorway.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, but even I start to doubt myself.
When the contractors arrive, I hesitate to lead them up into the attic. The first pokes his head in there and whistles, “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” he says.
I nod. “That’s why I’m extra appreciative of you all for taking on this job. Please let me know if you need anything.”
I turn on my heel to go back downstairs, but I pause.
“Let me know if anything happens,” I say quickly.
I leave before the contractors can respond.
I spend the rest of the afternoon digging deep into the development of my latest app, but all day long, my mind returns to the icy lips clamping down on my throat—like they were trying to suck the life out of me.
Chapter 9
Eleanor
It’stheweekbeforeHalloween. I am ravenous. Hunger seizes my stomach at all hours of the day. Nothing satisfies me. Every night at dinner, I lick the plate clean. I try and stay mostly vegetarian; I’m not a fan of red meat.
But one night, when it’s just Joseph and I, I smell the steak he’s cooking, and my mouth floods with saliva.
“Can I have some?” I ask.
“Oh, sure. Let me cook it a little more.”
The steak is still pink in the middle, a bit of blood drips into the pan, and my stomach growls. I have to stop myself from lunging across the counter and grabbing it with my bare hands.
I grab a plate instead.
“That looks great, actually,” I say. I try to sound cheery, to not betray the fierce hunger twining along my bones and stomach.
