AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Last night, when I was inside her, I told myself I’d fight a war for her if I needed to. I’d do anything it takes to protect her. But in the cold light of morning, with dead bodies already piling up… I can’t follow through on that whim.
Clara has gone where I can’t follow, and if I can believe in anything at all, I have to believe that she has a plan with half a chance of succeeding.
I have to trust her.
It takes me a moment to realize Iris is calling my name. I raise my phone to my ear, but she’s not speaking through the phone. She’s standing right in front of me, and I was too dazed to notice her.
“Thomas!” she snaps, her eyes wide. When I finally focus on her, she lets out a breath of relief. “Are you okay?” She grabs my wrist to check my vitals for some reason, and I pull out of her grip. “You were unresponsive,” she explains.
“I’m thinking,” I say stiffly.
Iris plants her hands on her hips. “About?!”
“Clara is gone,” I repeat. “I have three days before Derrick can get his raids organized, which means Clara has three days to work on her uncle.” I brush past Iris, new energy in my steps, and she follows, still looking slightly alarmed. “If she's still alive after those three days, I’m going in and I’m bringing her home,” I promise Iris. “And then I’m making her my wife.”
CHAPTER 32
Clara
I know the moment I step into my uncle’s territory by the chill that races down my spine. There are eyes in every shadow that watch me pass by. Any second now, the creatures behind those hungry gazes will pounce.
The shopping district that belongs to my uncle isn’t as affluent as the ones under Thomas’s rule, but there’s a hominess to it that I might like under better circumstances. I see a man running off after his two dogs in a small park, listen to teenagers gossip outside the art house theater, and wish I had time to drop into a pop-up cafe for some breakfast. There’s an empty space between a boutique and a mom-and-pop candy shop, and I imagine putting my paintings up in its dark windows.
If this were my territory, how would I run it differently from my uncle?
It’s a foreign thought, but not an unpleasant one. Not anymore. I’ve lived my entire life without agency, a thing I’ve only recently begun fighting to reclaim. At first, I thought that if I could run far enough and fast enough, I could make a life for myself. Maybe that would have worked if my uncle was a different person, or I was, but it didn’t. Now I’m taking the direct approach, and with that comes an entire new world of possibility.
I don’t actually see any of my uncle’s men, but I know they’re there, following me as I walk past shops and shoppers. A narrow alley opens up between two buildings on my right, and I turn into it. The dark shape of a man appears at the far end, blocking my way out of the alley, but I don’t stop walking until I’m an arm’s length away. I know he belongs to my uncle.
“I’m ready to go back,” I say, as if running away was actually just a casual outing.
The man, whose name is Garrett, looks down his nose at me. I gaze steadily back without blinking. His brow furrows, not really knowing what to do with feminine confidence. “This way,” he says at last, and leads me to a parking lot behind the shopping district. A black car, nearly identical to the one Thomas burned, is waiting for us on the curb. I don’t need three men to haul me inside this time. I step in on my own, and Garrett slams the door behind me.
I try not to watch the familiar streets pass me by, or I might lose my cool. Too soon, we pull up to the Speare estate. When Garrett stops the car at the gate and gets out, I take a quick breath, then another. My hands are trembling, but I clench them into fists to hide it.
Garrett wrenches open my door, and I step out, looking the old house up and down through the black iron gate as casually as I can. As if it would be any different from a week ago. The house my uncle purchased with money stolen from the Warwicks was built in the Greek Revival style, and is painted an unfortunate shade of blood red. Cypress trees peek out over the top of the red brick wall, lining the entire perimeter of the grounds, which are much larger than this front view would have a passerby believing. On the other side of the wall is a maze of overgrown wooded areas and outbuildings.
When I see who’s waiting for Garrett and I at the gate, I almost let my relief show on my face. It’s not my uncle, but Paul. He’s focused on lighting a cigarette while the iron creaks open, as if I’m not here at all. I notice the scruff on his jaw is thicker than usual, the circles under his eyes darker. When he finally does look up at me, I wish he’d continued to ignore me. His washed out blue eyes are flat with disappointment in me.
“You shouldn’t have come back, squirt,” is all he says. Then he escorts me into my uncle’s house.
Unlike the open, industrial style of the new Warwick house, my uncle’s estate is stiflingly archaic. The dark red of the exterior is mirrored inside, made more oppressive by heavy curtains over every window and walnut wood paneling on every wall. It’s too quiet in here, like everyone is moving through the world trying not to disturb the master of the house. The air itself feels thicker, heavier.
Or maybe that’s just my heart, sinking with the knowledge that I’m walking right back into the mouth of the beast.
Paul leads me straight to my uncle’s office, a cursed place that I’ve worked hard these last ten years to avoid. Men have been reduced to babbling, bleeding husks in front of me in that room. And then they became corpses, and every time, I would feel like a piece of my soul had died with them.
A foolish part of me hopes that Paul will come with me into the office, although that would ruin my plan before it even began. His presence is the only one that has ever been a comfort to me in this place. After my mother’s death, at least.
But of course, despite my childish wish and my own better judgment, Paul only opens the door for me and waits. Our eyes meet before I pass the threshold. The scrunch of his brow is the only sign on his dispassionate face that he’s uneasy about this meeting.
It reminds me of Thomas, and that bolsters me, makes me feel less alone. But at the same time, I think of Derrick Lindman, and how slippery every one of his smiles were at the banquet. Between the two of them, I have to find a middle ground, something achievable for me, or I won’t succeed here.
I smile up at Paul, as innocent and charming as I know how to be, and he blinks at me. He’s taken aback, although he won’t show it. How can I smile, how can I be at ease, when I’m about to face off with a monster in the guise of a family member? I let him wonder and turn away, finally stepping into the office and closing the door behind me myself.
Uncle Morgan is already standing behind his desk, arms crossed tight over his scarecrow frame, waiting for me. It takes all my newfound determination to keep from quailing under his piercing gaze. I cross the floor toward him one step at a time, one decision at a time. I’m stepping on black marble tile here, not dark stained hardwood like the rest of the house. Easier to mop blood off of.
I stop behind the chair set up in front of Uncle’s desk. He jerks his chin at it, and I sit, which is a relief for my wobbling knees.
