Page 24 of Phantasm
Restless, I throw off the quilt and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I should kill her. Get it over with. Silence these voices once and for all.
With my elbows on my thighs, I drag my hands down my face. Sweat clings to my bare back. I didn’t shave this morning,which isn’t like me. When life is normal—and I don’t have a firecracker living under my roof, making her presence known with her trail of destruction—I live according to a strict schedule. Some say I have OCD. Me? I like to feel in control.
Control over my surroundings and others. But then my new wife barged into my life like a typhoon and turned my home and routine upside down.
Sinclair thinks she’s good for me, but what does he know?
My day-old stubble rasps beneath my fingers as I try to silence the echo of my mother’s screams that linger like the sweat on my back. Guilt is slowly eating me up from the inside, chewing on my intestines like parasites. I hid in the closet that night because I was scared.
Weak.
I’ll never forgive myself for not rising above my fear. A strong man acts; he doesn’t hug his knees to his chest and cower.
I ball my hands and punch my head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
“Oh, looky what we have here. Did you think you could hide from us?”
Shooting to my feet, I pace a hole in the carpet.
“Make Mr. Delacroix watch, but don’t kill his wife. Not yet. She’s my offering for the night.”
My mother’s necklace is in the bedside drawer, so I pull it open and shift random items out of the way until my fingers touch the silver chain.
I lift it out, brushing my thumb over the heart pendant. “I should have done something that night.” My voice sounds far away, lost in memories of the past. “I should have stopped them.”
I place the necklace back inside the drawer with trembling hands, and then quickly shower to wash off the lingeringnightmare. There’s no way I can sleep now; it would only send me back to that day.
Once dressed in joggers and a T-shirt, I leave for the office, or at least that’s my intention, until I pause at the top of the grand staircase.
The hallway leading to Cecilia’s quarters is dark and terrifyingly inviting. I’m on the move before I even know what’s happening, too curious not to inch her door open and peer inside. Just one peek. But of course, her door is locked, and I glower as if it’ll magically open if I direct my ire like a solar flare.
No such luck.
Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I do the only logical thing: I wake up Miss Sanders and demand she bring the spare key to my wife’s bedroom.
Exactly seven minutes and thirteen seconds later, on the dot, she turns the corner, flustered.
Her hair is a mess and her blouse is buttoned up wrong. I’ve fired people for less, but I have greater issues at hand than the state of my PA’s clothes.
“You’re two minutes and thirteen seconds late, Miss Sanders. You know how I feel about tardiness.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She holds up the key between us like a peace offering. “In my defense, you woke me up at three in the morning.”
I snatch the key. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t.”
When she fails to move, I glare. “You’re dismissed.”
She turns on her heels and hurries out of my sight, no doubt breathing a relieved sigh on her way.
In the ensuing silence, I stare at the key in my hand like a foreign object from an alien planet, confused by my feelings. On the one hand, I’ve dreamed of avenging my parents, but on the other, I’m also curious about the sleeping woman on the otherside of the door—curious enough to insert the key and turn until the lock clicks.
I poke my head inside her dark room. She’s asleep on her side, facing away from me, so I open the door farther, stepping over the threshold.
Her feminine, flowery scent is everywhere, perfuming the air, and clothes are strewn on the floor. I almost trip over a designer shoe. My wife is messy. That much is clear.
As I near the bed, my steps slow, and I just…stare.
