Page 3 of Beautiful Exile

“Mom,” I croaked.

“Not a word.” She quickly closed the panel.

The space was so tight it felt like I could barely breathe. It didn’t smell like the rest of the house; in here, the scents of dust and cleaning supplies filled my nose. And it was dark. Pitch-black except for the tiny sliver of light from the seam in the wood.

“Blythe,” a voice greeted. There was a smoothness to it that felt like a lie—the same way the lines around my mom’s mouth gave her away.

I pressed my face to the wood, trying to see, and could just make out the hallway right in front of the panel: the antique rug that lined the gleaming hardwood floor, the oil painting opposite me.

I stared at the brushstrokes as I waited. Some looked angry and forceful, while others were peaceful and calm. It wasn’t something I’d ever noticed before, even though I’d passed the painting every day for my entire life.

“What are you doing here?” My mom tried to keep her voice calm, but it had a shrill edge. “Where’s Robert?”

A tsking noise sounded. “Now, Blythe. Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”

My mom went quiet for a moment before speaking again. “What do you want? Whatever you need, I’ll gladly give it to you.”

“I’m so happy to hear you feel that way. What Iwantedwas for your husband to do what he was instructed. Instead, he tried to renege on his promises. And, Blythe, I don’t like it when people go back on their word.”

I could hear my mom’s breaths—short, ragged pants just a few steps from me. She was so close I should’ve been able to reach out and touch her. Squeeze her hand in the secret way we used to silently tell each other:I love you. But I couldn’t. Not now. It was as if an ocean lay between us.

“Whatever he took from you, I’ll make sure you get it. If we go to the computer, I can transfer it now.”

“Blythe,” the voice cooed. “That’s so kind of you to offer. Truly. You always were so much classier than your other half.”

The man spoke as if he knew my parents, but his voice was completely unfamiliar. I searched my memory for something—anything—that would pull a name free. A face. But there was nothing.

“Please,” my mom begged. “Don’t hurt us. We have a daughter.”

A few steps sounded, muted as if the man were moving closer on the carpet. “And where is that daughter now?”

My whole body began to tremble. It was like I’d been struck by lightning, and these were the aftershocks.

“She’s at a sleepover. A couple of girlfriends from school,” my mom said, her voice trembling like my body.

No one spoke for a beat or two. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Blythe? I don’t take kindly to liars.”

Tears tracked down my cheeks as I again reached for that loose thread on my jeans. I wrapped it so tightly around my finger that I knew it likely drew blood.

“I’m not lying,” Mom whispered.

The man made a humming noise, and a shadow covered my mother. I pressed my face harder against the door’s seam, trying to see better. The tip of a single shoe moved into the frame. I couldn’t take my eyes off that sliver of an image.

Leather. Dark brown with intricate stitching. It formed a shield of sorts with a lion. Words in Latin were above it, but I couldn’t make out the exact phrase.

“You know? I believe you,” the man said. “You always were more respectful than Robbie. But I’m afraid it’s too late. What he owes meis a blood debt. But that’s been paid. Unfortunately, because of your traitor of a husband, you’ll need to pay, too.”

The shoe disappeared from view, and another of those firecrackers sounded. Only now, I knew it wasn’t that. It was something so much worse.

My mom jerked, disappearing from my line of sight for a moment before stumbling back into the frame. She clutched her chest and then crumpled to the floor, blood spreading and seeping through her light purple cashmere sweater—the one that had felt so soft beneath my fingers.

Black spots danced in front of my vision.Breathe.I needed to breathe.

I sucked in short bursts of air. It was all I could manage.

My mom’s gray-violet eyes—oureyes—went wide and then froze, unblinking. Her hands went limp against the antique carpet—the one she always told me to be careful not to spill on.

Butshewas the one spilling now, her life force draining onto the dark mix of woven colors.

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