Page 31 of Chaos

I set the ax down on the floor beside her door and knock. Once, twice, three times, four. “Shasta? Open up.”

There’s a clatter inside. Then a bigger one.

I wince, imagining her shuffling blind in there, tripping.

I try the handle. Locked.

I bang on the door with the butt of my ax. “I’m back! Let me in.”

“Frankie?”

“Yep.”

“Go away.” There’s a pause. “I’m glad you’re back, though.” One more pause. “I know you’re probably thinking I’m being selfish, and I should ask how your incarceration was, but I’m not ready. Go cry to Yorke.”

“I’m not here to cry about me. And I don’t think you’re selfish. Let me in.”

“No.”

“Last warning.” I lift the handle of the ax and heft it in my hands, trying not to think about how different things might have been if I’d had an ax in that cellar. I could have chopped Ben’s head and Scraggle’s disgusting penis clean off, and I don’t know when I became bloodthirsty, but the thought sends a sharp surge of commingled longing and desperation through me. “I brought an ax, and I’ll use it.”

“Liar,” she shouts.

I rest my head against the door and close my eyes. “I just spent a month in a hellhole. I got felt up by an incel with pubes on his chin. I had to shit in a bucket and then sleep beside it. Trust me, I’m not afraid of you or a little door. I will chop it down.”

There’s a pause, before a muffled, muttering comes through the door. “Fuck, that’s grim.”

“It was, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you get through this, but I’m here now. Last chance to open up.” I back up, tightening my grip on the ax’s handle. “No? I warned you. Back up.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare. I dare. You had plenty of time to cry alone with your blind eyes.”

“Rude!” she shouts through the door. “And too soon. I’m not ready for jokes about it.”

“Too bad.” That comes out more choked than I meant, and my eyes burn. I blink fast until it goes away. “Get ready. One. Two. Shasta, I’m not screwing around.”

Nothing.

“Three. Back up, you stubborn snatch, and cover your face.” I lift the ax. I’ve never axed down a door, but I decide to start with the doorknob. “I’m not doing this without you.”

“Doing what?”

I catalog the options—being pregnant, returning to Thornewood, adapting to life without Ruby, and the bee maelstrom in my head. I settle with, “Any of it!”

Smash.

Less than four minutes later, wood splinters and dust cover the royal blue carpet of Shasta’s suite.

The suites in the hotel are all different. Hers has just the one bedroom and a small sitting room, and her wallpaper mimics a garden at night, foliage in shades of navy and gray, against a darker sky with a golden moon and silver clouds.

The drapes are pulled closed, shutting out the light.

“I can’t believe you did that.” She’s standing in the shadows, with her hand braced against the back of a club chair.

“I can’t believe you made me do it.” I rest the ax beside the door, panting from the exertion, reminding me how out of shape I am.

“How will I close the door when I sleep?”

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