Page 2 of Welcome Home
That’s what Oliver called them every time I had to be put on antidepressants again.My episodes.Good to know he discussed my mental health more with one of his mistresses than he ever did with me. My eyes slide to the back garden through the open gate on the pristine white privacy fence. My orange and yellow marigolds are wilting. I give it less than two weeks before they are as good as dead.
You should’ve been more careful moving them.
I never much cared for gardening anyway, just something I always felt like I should do. Idle hands and whatnot. I head over, closing and latching the gate before I forget again. Not that there’s any real reason to. Lake Haven Estates is perfectly safe. Perfectly maintained gated community of perfectly nice law-abiding citizens. My laugh stops short as I reach the front of my house, my pulse hiccups at the sight of my slightly cracked slate gray door, the ornate metal wreath sporting our last name hanging proudly in its place. I pause, glancing back to see if Rachel is still outside. Of course not. Probably waiting for one of their live-in nannies to unload the car. For once, I'm disappointed to not see her face. I'm certain I locked it behind me…
Did I forget to arm the security system again?
I swallow hard, reminding myself how safe it is here. Community watches and all. The worst thing that’s happened since we moved here six years ago was some teenagers tagging garage doors, then of course…Oliver’sdisappearance.
You've been stressed. You’ve been going through a lot of changes, you’re probably just overthinking it. Deep breath, Cora.
I push the door open wide with the toe of my tennis shoe, cringing at the way it squeaks in protest. Something Oliver never fixed despite all his promises to. God, even now he's all I can think about. Balling my fists, I step inside slowly, hating that even now this house has tormented me more than comforted. I've never found more than a moment of solace here, not until recently, and the sinking feeling in my gut tells me that too is about to come to an end. Glancing behind me, I do a double take of the road scanning for police cars or even just ones I don't recognize.
Everything is perfectly normal.
I walk down the entryway, carefully closing out my musicbefore pulling up the dial pad.
9
1
1
Just in case.
As soon as I hit the kitchen, my heart stops, an open loaf of bread laid across the island. A few pieces of bread falling from the end of the package. The tie discarded beside it. Seems innocent enough except for the fact that I had an apple and peanut butter bagel for breakfast. My finger hovers over the call button as my heart resumes beating in overtime. I don't know why I keep going, making every wrong decision I've yelled at the main girl for making in every slasher film ever. Still, I force my legs to carry me into the dining room, unused family lounge, the guest bath, living room, spare bedrooms and finally mine. After several checks under beds and in every closet, I'm certain I'm alone. I dash back down the stairs, my foot missing the second to last step. A yelp barely had time to make its way through my throat before I fall. My hip smashing into the hardwood floor.
Idiot.
I groan as I stand, taking a few half limp steps before the pain mostly subsides. Shoving the abandoned front door closed and locking the deadbolt in its place. I give myself a once over, finding no real injuries aside from my bruised ego. All of that tough girl canvases her own house bullshit I just did immediately negated by my ill-timed trip down the stairs. A cold chill swoops down my spine as I stare at the notch on the banister of the stairs. It's tiny, at the very bottom. If you didn't know it was there, you'd probably never even see it. I get stuck standing there like I always do. Letting myself be taken over by all the feelings that accompany the small notch at the bottom of the stairs. How it changed me. Changed my life.
I will never be without that notch in the stairs. There’s something equal parts sickening and comforting about that.
Just as I lift the lid to the garbage, tossing the untouched loaf inside, I finally make up my mind not to call the police. I mean, call them and report what? That someone broke into my house and made a sandwich? Yeah, no. Stay out of sight. Don't draw attention to yourself is rule number one of being the primary suspect in a missing person investigation. Rule two, limiting interactions with the police seems like a no brainer. For the first few months, they thought he'd run away, dipped out to start a new life with one of his many girlfriends. All conveniently out of state. That theory was quickly ruled out. Who runs away without taking any money, their car or passport? No activity on any cards, social security number, nothing. The only reason they don’t have his wallet or phone is because I found them first. It says a lot that the past few months have been peaceful considering everything. Multiple searches of the house, warrants for my phone and laptop, interrogations, countless public appeals on TV, search parties, interviews…. It's all been hellish but peaceful in its own way. Calm within the storm.
I try to shake out my nerves as I head back upstairs, pushing down and chipping away at the sick feeling in my gut as I make my way to the shower. Scowling at the second unused robe hanging from the hook beside mine as I reach up, freeing my unruly hair. My chest lightens at the sight of my grown-out roots, giving way to my natural black. It looks awful, contrasting with the light brown I’ve dyed it for years.
I love it.
The imperfection of it all, like my nails I haven’t done since the night I reported him missing. The bathroom countertop is littered with hair ties and bobby pins. The cap from the toothpaste I haven’t bothered to screw back on. There's no one left here to complain about all the tiny things that make a house feel like a home. No hours of my day spent panicking over every insignificant detail in hope of avoiding one of his disappointed stares. I peel myself out of the sweaty running shorts and t-shirt, my grayish blue eyes searching my body. Stopping at all the places I don’t like. Committing them to memory as if I could ever forget. The stretch marks I’ve always had on my thighs, no matter how many treatments and creams they always come back.
“How do you get stretchmarks when you can’t even get pregnant?”
His scathing words cut through me like a heated blade as I dig my fingers into my palms. Forcing my eyes away from the long bathroom mirror, finally stepping into the shower. I gasp, recoiling towards the back to escape the scalding water. “Fuck.”
I brave the heat long enough to adjust the water to a bearable temperature, letting it roll over my fingers while it cools. Everything will be okay. You’ve come too far and suffered through too much for this to be what gets you. What pushes you over the edge. I repeat the same morbid pep talk I’ve given myself daily since this all went to hell as I scrub my body free of sweat and dirt. Trusting that if I say the words enough, I might force them into reality. After working conditioner through my tangled hair, I turn my back to the water, sighing deeply as it rolls over my tense shoulders. For a moment, washing away everything that isn’t the warm caress of the water. The sound of the bathroom door sliding open, the noisy way pocket doors do rips a scream from my throat. The foggy, vague silhouette of a man steps through and I damn near faint. Forcing my hands over my mouth as if my silence now will do a bit of good after the cat screech I just let loose.
For a moment…everything stops. I no longer feel the cold air nip at me from the newly opened door, or the conditioner running into my eyes. I don’t feel the warm comfort of the water, just my heart pounding in my chest. It’s only him and I and we're stuck like that…neither of us willing to make the first move for what feels like an eternity. The stalemate breaks the moment he takes a step. Another scream tears through me as I scramble for something to defend myself with, my foot hitting a slick part of the tan marble patterned tile. The air leaves my lungs with a deafening whoosh as I collide hard with the bottom of the shower. In a moment, he’s on me. I hadn’t even registered him opening the shower door; the pain searing through my left arm forgotten as I pitch and buck wildly, managing to flop myself unceremoniously from the shower. I scramble to my feet screaming like a banshee as I dart from the bathroom, not paying my attacker a single glance.
Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.
His hand connects hard, slapping against my shoulder before clamping down with an obscene amount of force, jerking me to a stop. I spin on him, bile rising in my throat as we fall to the ground. A strange strangled sound leaves my mouth, followed by a loud ugly sob as I struggle in his arms. Desperate to free myself from his grasp.
Please God no.
No no no no no no no no.
What the fuck?
