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He wanted to eat you,whispered a little voice in my head, and I tightly clenched my hands around my mug.
Flora had brought me to the kitchen and prepared me a mug of tea and a plate of food, including a seasoned chicken breast, some pasta drenched in olive oil and a pile of roasted broccolini and zucchini. I’d managed to eat most of it, and once I had, Flora had made a satisfied sound, explained where the guest room was as best as she could in her rudimentary English and bade me goodnight.
“Th-that’s it?” I’d asked her and scrambled up, my hands at my chest.
She’d tilted her head, squinted, then shrugged and nodded, saying something in Italian. I’d watched her start to walk away then felt my heart leap as she came back.
But Flora only gestured at my plate, then at the sink; giving me a warning look.
All alone in this big house, save for the unseen guards, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the kitchen. I’d turned on all the lights and then got up, making myself another cup of tea.
Ty’s kitchen was something out of a magazine, with glossy black marble countertops, a large fancy stove, and copper pots and pans hung up on the walls. There was a large window overlooking the backyard and, every so often, I could make out the trees moving against a starlit sky.
We had to be a good distance from the city, given the clarity of the sky and the number of stars.
Were we even in Massachusetts anymore? Had he taken me north to the mountains?
I jumped when the kettle’s whistle blew and then got to my feet, fighting the urge to tiptoe through this nice kitchen. The entire house was so over-the-top, way beyond anything I was used to. Even the tea bags were stored in fancy tins and of brands I’d never heard of.
Standing at the counter, I swirled the tea bag and tried to come up with a plan for the future. But it was blank, pressing me back into the moment at hand, where I’d made fucking tea in a gangster’s fancy kitchen.
Briefly, my mind flashed to a haphazard, half-formed plan where I hunted through the house and found the hard drive, then somehow made my way back to Boston—
“Oh shit.”
I’d completely missed Ryan White's deadline. I’d broken our contract.
I almost dropped the mug and cursed when some tea slopped onto the counter in my haste to put it down. Grabbing some thick and soft paper towels, because even the paper towels were high end, I cleaned up the mess and threw them out, then dumped out the tea.
Moving around the kitchen in a daze, I hit the lights and then went to the guest room upstairs. Not even caring if Ty had cameras or shit set up, I ripped off my sweater and jeans – stalking off towards the chest of drawers.
To my surprise, there were clothes piled inside. I found some silky pajamas and quickly changed, then crawled into the big bed. Too nervous about turning the light off, I just lay there – staring up at the ceiling.
It seemed impossibly far away, even as the white walls seemed to connect. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, there were no decorations in this room beyond the big bed, the dresser and a side table with a lamp. Even the windows only had blinds.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I'd always hated empty, white walls. They made me want to splash paint all over them, drenching the world in color and murals. They made me want to draw and scrawl, as though I could hide the bad things with beauty.
What had Ryan White said when I’d asked what would happen if I failed?
If you fail, then you’re mine.
Forever.
“Fuck,” I breathed out and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. Maybe I could ask Ty—
No, what was I thinking? Ryan White had to know that the Michaelson family had me. Maybe he’d think I was dead.
As much as it hurt, I probably had to leave it all behind.
Rolling over, tears fell from my eyes. I’d always suspected this might happen, even though I didn’t want to leave Boston or Sara.
No matter what had happened between my mother and me, the one thing that we’d always agreed on was that living in Boston was the best. Our bond over the city had never faltered through all our fights.
Leaving Massachusetts would be like losing her anew.
Memories and thoughts of her bubbled up, ones that I hadn't thought of in a long time: her laughing face as wind whipped her hair around as we ran towards her cruiser in a windy supermarket parking lot; her look of concentration as she moved around a punching bag, her fists a blur as she struck with accuracy. I remembered the way her dark hair fell over her forearm as she slept at our kitchen table, a sign that she'd once again nodded off while working.
As though I was there, I moved with the memory, remembering one of the last times I’d found her like that. How I’d wanted to slam the kitchen door and wake her up, throw a tantrum about my mother forgetting that she had a kid to feed, how she’d promised to stop being such a workaholic —falling asleep at the table and all that shit. I wanted her to be better about remembering to cook dinner, so I wouldn’t have to be the one to remind her to eat. In return, I’d be better about getting home on time and not cutting class.
