21
She felt heavy and exhausted as Monday rolled around. Sunlight streamed in as she wrapped her arms tighter around her pillow, burying her face in it. It was unusually warm, chasing away the mid-morning chills from the low temperature. Groaning quietly, she stretched out her toes and fingers and heard the quiet pops of the bones, slumping down onto the mattress.
Which was moving up and down in a slow, steady fashion, like someone fast asleep. "Chloe," whispered a man's rumbling voice as hands settled down on her back, the breathing never faltering. "Get up, baby girl. Your knee is crushing my bladder."
In an instant, she was up and staring into amused green eyes. Derek. Her cheeks were on fire as she scrabbled onto her knees, only succeeding in tangling herself in the sheets.
He was pulling himself into a crumpled upright position, snarling a yawn and pinching the bridge of his nose; he wore nothing but sweatpants and her mouth went dry at the sight of his chest. He was all muscle, with a hint of softness.
What happened? She sat there, curled up as he rose from the couch and headed down the hall to go pee. Her mind was racing. What happened? What happened? Oh my god, did we—All of the sudden, it clicked. Everything fell back into place. The events of yesterday…the events before yesterday…Derek's mother and father…
Chloe flopped back down and buried her face in the pillow, curling up on herself like a dying flower. School wasn't important, she told herself, blocking out the light and trying to smother the sounds of the house coming to life.
The entire weekend felt like one huge, horrible, terrible dream. She sighed and slowly relaxed, falling back under the lull of sleep.
Surprisingly, no one disturbed her.
It was 1:04 when she woke up. The house was quiet, with exception of the dogs who occasionally passed her.
"Good afternoon," said a voice from behind her and she rolled over to see Kit standing there, dressed in a Chicago university sweatshirt and holy jeans and thick fuzzy socks; his long hair was braided.
He smiled at her. "The kids are at school, although Derek wanted to stay home with you," he admitted with a laugh, his dark eyes watching her calmly as she sat up slowly and stared vacantly ahead.
"My aunt…she hasn't—" she started, voice soft.
"Not since yesterday," Kit interrupted her, walking over and sitting down carefully.
"Oh." She laid back down and he rubbed her back gently; tears blurred her vision and began to roll down her cheeks. "Why is everything turning bad?" she whispered as she cried, letting him rub her back.
"I don't know but, sweetie, things will turn around. We just have to have faith."
Too bad she lost that a long, long time ago.
Things weren't going to turn around; it was just going to get worse and worse until she fell off rock bottom.
She went home just before Derek came home.
She found her clothes, freshly washed—courtesy of Tori, surprisingly—and slipped them on, jeans and a simple black hoodie over her bra. She felt better than she had in days, wearing her own clothes; she hugged Kit goodbye and walked out.
It was only a fifteen minute drive to her house from his; walking, however, was twenty. She hunched her shoulders, pulled up her hood and headed home.
The house was empty when she unlocked the front door. Quickly, she locked it back behind her. She hadn't been in her room since…it seemed like forever. Every inch of her body ached for her bed, familiar and comfy, and she kicked off her wet sneakers as she headed for the stairs.
Working to unbutton her jeans, she started up the stairs and glanced around.
The house seemed cold and desolate.
The doorbell rang.
Anger boiled in her chest as she ignored it and decided to take a nice, hot bath.
Again, the doorbell rang.
And again, Chloe ignored it. She knew it was rude but she couldn't find the energy to care; she just wanted to unwind in her house for once without being interrupted by crazy aunts or dead animals in her room.
She sat down at the top of the stairs and looked at the side window panels beside the door through the banister. A blur of a sleeve, maybe a coat sleeve, hit the doorbell again. I don't care, she told herself firmly; she didn't want to open the door and see who it was—no, she wanted to relax and maybe cry and eat some ice cream for dinner.
The ringing continued.
She continued to ignore it.
And that damn doorbell kept ringing.
She fell asleep in the bath at two and woke up, with a loud yelp, at five. The water was cool by now and a film of soap made her grimy; she washed off. The ringing had been going on for five hours.
She dried off and dressed in an old t-shirt and shorts, showing off the pale hair on her legs and various scars from running and tripping. Asphalt is very unforgiving on the knees; it's recommended not falling on.
"Who could it be?" she asked the mirror as she splashed cool water on her warm face and watched her expression. Big, blue eyes and red eyelids; bags under the eyes and clumpy hair; pale skin and a perpetually frightened look on her face. She took a deep breath and shut off the light.
It was a little after five, five-fifteen. The ringing was getting more and more persistent. Her nerves grated down to the thread, she stomped down the stairs and yanked the door open.
"What?" she spat.
And froze, her eyes widening as she scrabbled back, fear and confusion sliding into her veins as Zachary Cain stood in her doorway, staring at her with his pitch-black eyes, carrying her aunt in his massive arms.
"A-Aunt Lauren?" she squeaked, eyes glued to the seemingly dead woman.
"May I come in, Chloe?" he asked and his voice sent shock-waves down her spine like a sharp electric jolt. He knew her name and he was at her house, holding her unconscious aunt. Something wasn't right but, for now, she pushed it to the back of her brain.
"Yes, Mr. Cain, you may."
And as he headed inside, she glanced outside.
Not a soul.
No one to hear her scream for help.