Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The corridor is dimly lit. This part of the house is off limits, just like the upper floors, and everyone knows it. Sconces along the paneled walls light the way and I swear that, even now, months after his death, the faint scent of cigars and cologne linger here. It’s not quite comfort I feel, though. It’s something else. A safety in boundaries. Lines that can’t be crossed. Maybe I’m imagining the familiar scents. Probably I am. But I breathe in deeply, a contradictory mix of sadness and nausea filling me from my center outwards.
Allowing myself one moment there, I hurry before Michael realizes I’ve left the party and comes to drag me back. I open the door, finding the usual lights on, one on Dad’s desk and the other the lamp over his favorite armchair. They’re dim and he always kept them on. Since his death, Michael and I have both continued to do so.
I slip inside and close the door, leaning against it and looking at the empty space behind the desk. My brother’s mess is on top. My father would never have tolerated such sloppiness when he was alive. That or the half-drunk glass of whiskey that’s also Michael’s. Michael is himself now that there is no reckoning to be had. I think it’s a sort of postmortem rebellion.
Muttering a curse, I walk over to pick it up before it leaves a ring when movement at the far end of the room catches my eye.
Gasping, I whirl around, my hand flying to my heart, panicked when I see the form there. A man half hidden in shadow turned toward me.
He doesn’t move, not even when he knows I’ve seen him. He doesn’t even try to hide. Instead, he stands still and watches me. He’s probably been watching me since I walked in here.
I can’t see his face, but I see the sheer size of him. He has one hand in his pocket and in the other he’s holding a tumbler of whiskey. He’s wearing a suit. Black on black on black. Everyone out there is in costume. This man didn’t bother.
Our family photos hang in a collage of matching frames on the wall behind him. I remember putting them up with Dad. Was this man, this stranger, studying them? It feels like a violation.
“What—” I croak, my voice not quite making it. I clear my throat. “What are you doing in here?”
He steps forward so the lamp by the chair casts its light over his face. My breath catches in my throat when I see his eyes. They’re a cobalt blue so pure they’re almost electric. Against his deep olive skin and dark hair, they’re almost out of place, and for one idiotic moment all I can think is how beautiful they are. How beautiful he is.
He raises one eyebrow, a corner of his mouth lifting like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s used to it. He cocks his head and very openly studies me.
I’m suddenly aware of the complete silence in the room. Dad soundproofed it years ago. The only noise is that of blood pounding against my ears as my heart thuds at the surprise of finding someone in here.
Finding him in here.
A word takes form in my mind.
Danger.
No. It doesn’t take form. It’s a feeling. And it’s not in my mind. It’s a sensation that begins in my belly and moves outward to spread down every limb.
I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before. But I do know he shouldn’t be in here. I know he’s no friend. Although, is anyone in that other room a friend?
The man’s eyes move over me slowly, purposefully, taking in every inch of me. My ‘costume’ was last minute. Black palazzo pants and a black, off-the-shoulder top with feathers along the bust line, a pair of too-small wings I found among old toys from when we were little, some leftover Halloween costume, strapped to my arms. Ballet slippers. The mask.
His cobalt eyes return to mine. “Moth?” he asks, his voice hard as gravel.
“Excuse me?”
He gestures to my clothes. “Your costume?”
I look down, feeling exposed. Seen. More so than I was in that room with two-hundred sets of eyes watching.
“Butterfly,” I hear myself say.
“Hm.” That utterance breaks the spell. I guess that to mean my costume is a flop.
I raise my eyebrows, although he can’t see that under my mask. I take one step toward him, but something tells me to stop. Tells me not to proceed. “No one’s supposed to be in here,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the pounding of my heart.
“No?”
“You should know that. Everyone knows that. This is my father’s study.”
“Your father’s dead,” he says flatly the words landing hard, a punch to my gut that leaves me breathless and stunned.