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I followFrancis around as he walks from room to room. Huffing everytime he looks over his shoulder and sees me. He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “Miss?”
“Francis.”
The poor man looks as if he’ll have an aneurysm. “Can I help you with anything?”
I shake my head, smiling.
“Then why are you following me?”
“You’re my only friend here. I thought you’d enjoy my company.”
Francis' posture softens along with his eyes. “As touched as I am, miss. You cannot follow me around all day.”
I sigh, “You’re right, I need to go find something to do.”
“Perhaps, the piano.”
I shake my head, turning to walk upstairs, once Francis is out of sight, I drag my finger along the wall, going down a hallway I’ve never been too. There are only two doors, one on each side of the hall. I take the one closest to me, stepping into an office. The scent hits me, and I close my eyes, breathing Atticus in. I shut the door softly behind me. Spinning slowly to take in the one wall lined with books. The other opens into a balcony, the doorsa stained glass of black and white roses. The outline is harsh and thick, giving the glass dimension and texture.
The desk is large, lions swirled into the black wood. It’s neat, nothing out of place, not even a pen facing the wrong way in the holder. The chair is leather, a deep brown that should honestly be classified as black since it’s so dark. The rug though. It’s the first pop of color. A light gray with black filigree on it.
I take a step behind the desk, opening the first drawer. I find a single picture taped to the wood. A younger version of Atticus, but his neck is wrapped in a collar, a single lock in the middle. He looks lost, confused and…numb. The picture makes my stomach twist, souring with every second I stare at the picture.
I want to rip it up, destroy the evidence of anyone ever hurting him, but instead, I close the drawer, opening the next to find them full of files. I peek up at the door to make sure I was still alone. I rifle through the files, stopping when I find one on me. I quickly grab it, shoving it in the waistband covering it with my sweater.
I should leave, walk away, but I can’t help but open the top drawer one last time. Glass shatters next to my head, breaking and falling to my bare feet as I gasp, shutting the drawer.
“What. The fuck. Are you doing in here?” My eyes meet Atticus’, and the look he sends my way, makes my legs weak with fear.
I take a step back, feet crunching into broken glass and cutting up the sole of my feet. I wince, tears dripping down my face, but I can’t look away from Atticus as he slowly prowls towards me.
“I believe I told you to stay out of the west wing, did I not?”
“I’m… I’m sorry, I was just…”
“Just what?” he tilts his head, one hand reaching out and stroking my neck.
“I was looking for you,” I lie.
“Why?”
“I was,” I lean back, wincing.
“You’re lying, Little Bird.” He hisses, his hand tightening around my neck. “What did you see?”
“N-nothing.”
“Lying again. I can feel the rise in your pulse under my hand.” He drags my raw feet through the glass, and I cry out, but it’s like he can’t hear me. His eyes are void of anything, a face not a mask but an unsettling blank space of zero emotion.
“Atticus, please. You’re hurting me.” I wheeze out.
“Why should I stop? You didn’t listen when I told you not to come in here, did you? So, tell me why I should stop.”
I don’t get the chance, he tosses me out into the hall, my back smashing into the carpet. I whimper, my gaze blurry from unshed tears. I think I see something flicker in his eyes before he slams the door.
I sniff, wiping my tears and turning to crawl on my knees. I make it almost to my room when gentle hands touch me. It’s not the callused ones I crave, the ones I want.
“Miss, let me help you.” Francis says, his eyes sad and face soft.
