Page 54 of Black Castle

A noise from the kitchen window to her right makes her put her phone away, her head jerking in the direction.

She had seen the kitchen lights even before she stepped down from Lucan’s car earlier. She knew Isadora was around. But the dread of knowing she arrived home before her, which meant a confrontation was definite today, didn’t even bother her much.

Science says you can’t feel pain and fear at the same time. Maybe they are right. The all-consuming ache clawing at her from the inside is worse than any fear she harbors for Isadora.

Swatting away the insect perching on her arm, she heaves herself off the tire, a gentle thud heard when her doc martens land on the grass.

The tire swings mid air, the leaves of the thick branch it’s hanging off rustling, slicing through the quiet of the night.

One step through the wooden door and she can already feel it, a haunting shadow clinging to every corner of the room.

Taking in a deep breath, she closes the door behind her, the emptiness of the house with so much furniture and pretty decor enveloping her in a chilling hug. She feels the compelling urge to turn around and run. But to whom? The man who is probably in his private jet already, flying back to his country? Or to Kenji, who is presumably having a nice dinner with his mom?

An unnamed agony consumes her from the inside. She truly feels alone in a moment when she just wants to be embraced by warm arms.

“Evening,” she whispers to Isadora, barely sparing the woman a glance as she crosses the living room, heading toward her room.

“I was beginning to think you wanted to sleep out there in the yard tonight,” Isadora says, her tone almost playful. It’s a trap, and Vivienne knows.

There’s not going to be a warm moment between the two of them tonight. They’re not going to sit across from each other on the dining table and share a nice dinner. Not when the smell of alcohol lingers in the air—thick and suffocating.

The writing is on the wall, bold and clear; Isadora has tried to pour her frustration about a new case that’s starting to get annoying, or maybe her life in general, into a couple too many shots of vodka. But it didn’t quite work. She’s trying to release the tension by cooking. But it doesn’t seem to be working either. Now she wants to try a punching bag. And why go all the way to a gym or boxing ring when there’s this punchable daughter of a serial killer who lives under the same roof as her?

“Come here.” The shift in her tone is expected—sharp, instant and commanding.

Taking a deep breath, Vivienne pulls off her backpack, dropping it on the couch. With her muscles tensing, she walks to the kitchen, her body bracing for Isadora’s treachery.

“Who was that?” Isadora asks, not breaking her gaze from the glass bowl in front of her as she massages dry herbs and seasoning into freshly cut chicken breasts.

“Who?” Playing dumb won’t work. It never does. But Vivienne tries anyway.

Isadora pauses her action and turns around to face her, her eyes a canvas of malice. “Now, did you seriously think I didn’t see you come out of that flashy car?”

Vivienne stares at the floorboard, even though the pattern isn’t suddenly intricate and intriguing. She just wants Isadora to get it done already.

“Are you gonna answer, or do I need to beat the truth out of you?”

There it is.

Vivienne takes in a sharp breath. She has learned to break down Isadora’s beating, to measure the pain. It takes five minutes usually, ten if she’s really enraged—maybe the obnoxious leader of another team, Dain Torres, has succeeded in snatching another case from her.

“Speak!” Isadora roars.

“He was just a friend,” Vivienne murmurs. Was because he is gone now. He was just a traveler. A passerby who paused briefly in her life. And now, he has moved on in his journey, leaving behind his scent that will soon fade away with time.

“A friend, right?” Isadora takes steps closer, so close Vivienne can smell the alcohol in her breath, the aroma of ground ginger and nutmeg clinging to her hands, and her perfume that’s sickly sweet, suffocating. “And you have been out with him all day, haven’t you?”

Vivienne says nothing.

“Answer me!”

A burning slap snaps Vivienne’s head to the side, her vision titling as the dull headache from earlier explodes behind her eyes.

“Yes,” she chokes out, pressing a hand to her stinging cheek. But the tears that spill over have less to do with the pain spreading across her face, and more to do with the wave of icy hair, luminous eyes like amber caught in a dying flame, drifting away from her.

She has once dreamt up a tiny cabin in the mountains, filled with just enough books and the right amount of coffee as it snows in, and they are wrapped in each other’s embrace. But now, that will never happen. Because he is gone, just like the rest that ever gave her a glimpse of hope.

“Did you sleep with him?” Isadora breathes down on her, her voice seething. “You slept with him, didn’t you? I know you did. That’s what you are good at. He waves a few dollars at you and you opened your fucking legs for him like the little whore you are, isn’t?”

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