Page 6 of Fanged Secrets
Amara
My days in the apartment were filled with tension and uncertainty, and the mysteries surrounding my new wife were ever-present. Carlo had delivered my meager belongings the day after the marriage – consisting mostly of sketchbooks, notepads, and a small pile of clothing to replace the oversized (always black) attire I had been borrowing from Dylan.
Alongside my belongings was a small collection of tech, conveniently hidden in a tampon box. Trackers, a tiny mic, and even a little circular contraption I assumed was meant to act as a hidden camera. How Don expected me to keep these a secret from Dylan, let alone use them, was beyond me. My laptop, I noted with agitation, was not included.
I had been gifted a new phone, courtesy of my father, but was loath to make use of it. Knowing Don, it was probably bugged and I was wary of my father keeping track of my conversations with my agent. I had her details memorized for exactly this reason – I just had to find the closest public library and makeuse of their computers. That, however, was easier said than done.
While I was technically free to come and go as I pleased, leaving the apartment felt daunting. When I lived with my father I always had a chaperone, one of his men to drive me around and follow me wherever I roamed. Getting my graphic novel published had been difficult under the watchful eye of Don’s thugs, and it was only made possible with the help of Carlo who was more inclined to turn a blind eye for my sake.
Venturing out on my own felt daunting, and that thought alone stoked a burning anger in my chest. Don’s control over my life held fast, even when he wasn’t there. I was well aware of the effects my constrictive upbringing had on me, and I grated against a cage of my own creation. For the time being, I resigned myself to the confines of Dylan’s urban apartment.
I had been living with Dylan for a little over a week, and things were still as awkward as ever. From the day I set foot in her home Dylan had erected an invisible wall between us, a barrier of unspoken rules and guarded secrets. Whatever spark passed between us during that brief impassioned argument, it had been stamped out just as quickly and Dylan seemed determined to keep me at arm's length ever since. It didn’t help that her idea of a pleasant conversation was a blank stare.
Dylan only had one bed so I had been sleeping on the sofa. Not that I minded much, it was comfortable enough and Dylan hadn’t questioned it. The thought of sharing a bed with my frosty wife was only slightly appealing – I was, after all, a woman with eyes, and Dylan was undoubtedly gorgeous. But I wasn’t ready to risk frostbite lying next to the ice queen herself.
Even so, the arrangement highlighted the distance between us, a constant reminder that I was more of a temporary guest than a trusted spouse. Don wanted me to get close to Dylan, to garner enough trust for her to let down her guard and let me into theheart of the Leyore syndicate. So far, that was proving damn near impossible when merely getting close to her was like trying to befriend a fridge. And it wasn’t like she wasaroundvery often anyway.
Every morning, I would wake up to find the apartment empty. Dylan had a peculiar habit of disappearing without a trace. I never saw her leave and she always came home in the dead of night, slipping past the sofa as if she were a ghost. It was unnerving, and my suspicions grew with each passing day. I had begun to worry I may have shot myself in the foot demanding that she keep her dealings out of the apartment.
I had wanted her to keep her narcotics far away from me, I knew the tragedy they could cause all too well. But she seemed hellbent on keeping every aspect of her life a secret from me, and that was a problem. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Don called, expecting intel. My father was not a patient man.
The kitchen was the strangest part. It was immaculate, almost as if it were more for show than actual use. I had never seen Dylan eat. Not once. The fridge was perpetually empty, and there were no signs of any cooking going down whatsoever. It was as if food was an alien concept to her. The only time the kitchen was used was when I prepared my own sloppy meals, and even then, I felt like an intruder in a space that wasn’t meant to be lived in.
Her eating habits, or rather the lack thereof, were baffling. I caught myself wondering if she had an eating disorder or if she was on a bizarre celebrity diet, but none of those explanations seemed to fit. I even wondered if she had been dipping into the Leyore’s drug stash and if that quelled her appetite, but she seemed way too put together to be a junkie herself and her arms bore no trace of the telltale pockmarks I knew so well.
It was as if she didn’t need food at all.
Despite my growing unease, I was determined to learn more about Dylan. On the few occasions when she was around – usually lurking in the farthest corner of the apartment – I tried to engage her in conversation.
I diligently jotted down words in my sketchbook and waved them around until I caught her attention. Unfortunately, any attempt at small talk, from polite questions about her day to comments on the weather, earned me a blank stare and a raised brow in response. If I was really lucky, I got a small frown. It was always a devastating defeat when she handed the sketchbook back without a word.
Even when she did respond, her eyes remained distant and guarded. She never volunteered any information about herself, and any questions about the rest of her crew were met with vague replies. The only time I had seen her truly drop the mask was when we argued, and her eyes had rested ever so briefly on my lips. From an analytical perspective that seemed a weak spot I could possibly exploit, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to take things that far just yet. Or confront my own feelings on the matter.
One evening, after yet another day of mediocrity and unanswered questions, I found myself alone in the living room, sprawled out on the carpet because Dylan wasn’t there to judge me for it. My wife had disappeared again, leaving me to my thoughts. It was like living with a phantom. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I was being kept in the dark on purpose. Dylan’s secrecy was deliberate, and it was driving me insane.
Dragging my head up from the floor, I squinted at the clock above the front door. It was well past midnight and there was still no sign of her. With no one around to hear me, I let out a frustrated groan, or something to that extent. While I couldn’thear myself, I could feel the thrum in my throat and it felt good to let it out for once.
Before I died of boredom or withered away in despair, I decided to do some snooping to pass the time. I had already examined the apartment from top to bottom but hadn’t found anything of interest yet. The trunk Dylan had been so cagey about disappeared after that first night and I had found no evidence of narcotics in the apartment. Dylan, to her credit, had stuck to her word.
I tip-toed through the living room, illuminated by the multicolored lights of the city below. The only place I hadn’t explored yet was the rooftop, and the narrow staircase that spiraled into the ceiling piqued my interest. I climbed the stairs and pressed my shoulder against the trapdoor above me. Usually, it was locked, so when the door lifted without hindrance it took me by surprise and I froze for an instant, deliberating whether or not it was worth getting caught up there.
Dylan could be back any minute, and considering the rooftop had been inaccessible until that point there was clearly something she didn’t want me to see. In the end curiosity won, and I pushed the door open, scrambling up the last few rungs and hauling myself through the ceiling. I found myself standing in a tiny brick enclosure, illuminated by a single flickering bulb. The wooden door in front of me showed signs of decay and it shook slightly on its hinges, jostled by a breeze that slipped through the gaps.
I nudged it open and, to my surprise, stepped out into a miniature garden. Every inch of the rooftop was filled with vibrant plants and lush foliage, all haphazardly arranged in a plethora of colorful pots. A canopy covered in twisted ivy sheltered the serene space, and delicate wind charms refracted the luminous lights of the city. It was beautiful, a sharp contrast to the stylish but sterile interior of the apartment below.
I wandered further into the secret garden, my fingers brushing leaves and petals as I walked. At a glance, it was overgrown and untamed, but there was obvious care put into this collection of plant life, intentionally unkempt as it was.
I nudged a discarded watering can aside with my foot. Whatever I was expecting to find on the rooftop, a hidden passion for plants was not on the list of possibilities. But then again, I should have known. Dylan seemed to live her life separate from the rest of the world. If not people, you had to find solace in something else.
I eyed a set of old gardening gloves, covered in fresh soil. I thought of my sketchbooks; hours upon hours spent alone, lovingly filling each page. It seemed my wife and I had something in common.
A sudden prickle of unease shivered over my skin, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched. Even with this anticipation in mind, I couldn’t stifle a yelp when I spun around and found Dylan standing right behind me. Her sudden presence was startling, but it was the cold look in her eye that made my stomach drop.
Her lips moved and I tried to read them, but she was shrouded in shadow and I couldn’t make out her words. I assumed she was asking what I was doing up there and tried to shrug nonchalantly, hoping to diffuse any tension.
But Dylan’s eyes flashed and she stepped closer, her movements sharp and aggressive. This was nothing like her sultry threats from the first night, she seemed furious to find me up there. Her anger I could understand, this was her sanctuary. But she was terrifying in the dark, towering over me. The shadows that clung to her seemed to give her height and her eyes were unnaturally incandescent. Her lips moved again, more forcibly this time, and I caught the words “mind your own business” and “forbid.”
She was forbidding me from coming up here again. Something about that made me wilt and I shrank away from her, wrapping my arms around myself. I had spent a lifetime being ordered around by my father, the last thing I needed was another person aggressively telling me what I could and couldn’t do. The warmth I had felt toward Dylan evaporated, replaced by a familiar bitterness.
