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I’ve been up here a handful of times since that night I spent with Vincent. I’ve used this single room as a landing space when I needed to make some pretty big decisions in my life.
I’m hit with the worst smell as I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs. It’s a mix of chemicals I’m unable to recognize, but it’s strong enough that my stomach starts to turn before I even reach for the doorhandle.
A million thoughts race through my mind as I step inside. The first being that the door wasn’t locked. The bed is no longer where it always was. Now the mattress is on its side, leaning against the far wall. The rest of the furniture, including the cute matching side table Janet spent an ungodly amount of time attempting to restore before painting them all to match the décor in here, are stacked on top of each other in the corner. All of these changes were made to make room for the apparent drug manufacturing equipment. There are empty bulk containers of hydrogen peroxide and drain cleaner tossed into a pile. Glass cookware and other pans litter nearly every available surface.
I press my nose into the crook of my arm, taking a step back toward the door.
This should make everything make more sense, but it doesn’t. If anything, it only makes things worse.
Our father battled addiction for many years of my childhood before losing that battle when I was about Jace’s age. My memories of him are more from stories I was told rather than things I recalled experiencing myself. Janet was always adamant about not doing drugs or anything that could harm you. I thought she was going to resort to violence the time she caught me smoking a cigarette outside of Mom’s house when I was a teen. Her concern was so heartfelt that I never touched another after that.
This makes no sense.
Were they doing this to make money or did they need money because they were doing drugs and thought making them for themselves would be more beneficial? Were they drug dealers? Did they die buying drugs or attempting to sell them? Did their lives end because they encroached on someone else’s turf?
I back out of the apartment, making sure to turn the lock on the doorknob before closing it behind me. The very last thing I need is for that nosy old lady to come over here or for a neighborhood kid to find all this shit.
My mind is racing as I go back down to my car, questioning my own morals. I know I should disclose exactly what I found when it gets to the stage where I have to sell the house, but at the same time, I know how hard that would make the sale.
My struggle continues across the driveway, my attention not where it should be when I run into a brick wall.
“Fuck,” I hiss when I notice the scent of him first.
I’m not one to really believe in core memories having much control over a person, but the familiar spice on his skin threatens to take me right back to that night.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, taking a few steps back. My first instinct when I look up at him is to run into his arms and let my tears soak into his shirt, but I learned long ago that my first instincts are always wrong.
He doesn’t hesitate to drop his hands from my upper arms where he placed them to steady me.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I snap, getting close enough to shove both of my hands into his chest.
His jaw twitches but he does nothing to make me think he’ll retaliate.
“Is something wrong?” His voice is full of gravel yet somehow smooth.
I scoff. Every fucking thing is wrong. Nothing is right.
“That’s a stupid question. You need to leave.”
He’s still standing in the driveway as I get my purse from the car, digging around inside it until my fingers brush my keys.
He doesn’t try to stop me, nor does he follow me to the front door as I unlock it and step inside.
I wasn’t in the apartment for long, but I’d never risk going to pick up the kids with anything dangerous on my skin.
I do my best not to think about what I’m doing as I grab some lounge clothes from Janet’s dresser and head to the bathroom down the hall.
He’s no longer in the driveway when I peer down from the window. I’m mad he didn’t bother to attempt to stick around, and also grateful he left. Both emotions piss me off. He’s as irrelevant to me now as he was three years ago.
I need him out of town, not snooping around, trying to insert himself into my business.
Chapter 5
Stormy
“You mean more private time?” Legacy asks, his lip twitching with mirth as he watches his new wife’s mouth hang open in shock. Her cheeks start to turn pink, making it very clear how easily she gets embarrassed.
Although many of us know why they disappeared for a while after they said their vows, no one would actually bring it up to them.
