Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Jericho?” I try again quietly. Nothing.
I walk through the rooms on the first floor, but still don’t find him until I get to that heavy steel door leading to the cellar. It stands open and I can see the dim light from a single, naked lightbulb downstairs. He’s left his key in the lock. It’s not like him. Too careless. He wouldn’t risk Angelique coming down here. Especially at night.
Although he was drunk earlier. Maybe he got up and drank some more. What do I know?
I take the first step hugging myself tighter as I descend into the cellar, the memory of the night I spent down here making me shiver. I should call out to him. Let him know I’m coming. But I don’t make a sound, my steps careful.
I recall the other time I was down here. How he threatened to leave me in that room or bring me back to punish me. I remember the man I’d met that first night. My horned devil. I remember him stripping me naked but giving me his shirt to wear. But I also remember him locking the door and walking away when he knew I’d be terrified.
That was the point. I shouldn’t forget it.
“What are you hiding?” I hear him say just as I near the bottom of the stairs. The way the stairs are walled in you can’t see in either direction of the corridor until you’re properly in the cellar. The light overhead blinks but the hall to the right is dark. That’s the side I’d been on. I remember the other side. How dark it was.
I wish I’d put on shoes, or socks at least, as I take a step toward that other corridor. It’s several degrees colder down here and the only dim light is from the open door of a room at the very end.
“Jericho?” I say, my voice too quiet to be heard.
Nothing.
Nothing but a noise behind me that makes me jump. Makes my heart fall to my stomach.
Just the house settling. It’s an old house. That’s all it is.
I keep going. I know he’s in the room at the end. I hear his mumblings. See his shadow fall across the hall as he walks from one side of the room to the other. And I find myself hurrying, too far from the stairs to run back up, too terrified to stay where I am. Because we’re not alone down here. I feel it. Feel the icy presence with us.
But when I get to the door of the room, I stop. I see him inside, his back to me. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of sweats so I have a full view of the twin dragon tattoo. It’s huge and spectacular but that’s not what has caught my eye. For the first time since I’ve known Jericho St. James, I see him at a loss.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s sitting on a wrought iron bed that must be a hundred years old. Older. It makes the one in the room I was locked in look brand new. The mattress on it is modern though and it doesn’t quite fit it. It hangs over the side a few inches. An almost empty bottle of whiskey is on the nightstand. I’ve seen him drunk before. It’s not pretty. But tonight is different. There’s a darkness to him. A shadow. A sadness.
I realize what’s different. Missing. His anger. Something about it, how he’s sitting there alone and a little lost, it makes my heart twist. Makes it hurt.
He’s looking through a box, an old wooden box that must have been painted pink once. From inside, he’s taking out folded sheet of paper after folded sheet of paper.
“Where is it?” he asks. “Where did you leave it?”
I look around the room and smell the stale, old scent of cigarette smoke from years past. I see the doll house. Barbie. I had a similar one growing up but this one’s a little older. Not too much though. There’s a small table in the corner, the once-colorful mosaic design on top now just old and broken. It looks like something that belongs outside in a garden. Beside it is a simple wooden chair.
“Where?” he says again.
I step into the room. “Jericho?”
He looks at me and is on his feet in an instant. I realize it takes him a minute to realize it’s me because his expression is different in that moment.
“You shouldn’t be down here. Go back upstairs,” he says, voice like gravel.
I look around the room, see a crucifix hanging crooked from a nail. I also notice a picture on the far wall. Whatever was framed inside, now yellowed and faded.
“Whose room is this?” I ask.
“No one. Go upstairs.” He sits back down, takes a drink from the bottle then opens the nightstand drawer, beginning to rifle through it.