Page 11 of By Sin To Atone

Where is it? Where the fuck is my phone?

I undo my seatbelt, listen to the ding ding ding alerting the driver as I drop down to the floor of the Rolls Royce to search for my phone. It’s not here. It’s gone. But who would I call anyway? Who could I call?

I climb back up to my seat, gather up my things and watch as we drive farther and farther away from any lights. I shiver not from cold but fear, loading my things back into my purse like that matters. Like anything matters. He’s going to kill me. Ezekiel St. James is going to murder me. It’s not like it’s his first time. He’s done it before. And that was his own father.

The car finally slows as we approach the open gates of a house set so far back from the road, I can just make out the light in a distant window. One light in a house that is so big, it can swallow up the apartment building I live in three times over and have room for dessert.

From what I can see, the grounds are meticulously maintained and vast and I don’t need to glance back to know that the gates behind me have sealed shut.

I fucked up this time. Well and truly fucked up.

The car comes to a stop at the stairs that lead to the front doors of the house. House. No, not a house. It’s a fucking estate. The driver kills the engine, climbs out and he opens my door. Just opens it and stands there like he had earlier. Still formal in his uniform although the black leather gloves he’s wearing give off a menacing vibe now.

“Miss,” he says when I don’t move.

I’m going to be sick again. I would be if there was anything left in my stomach. I think about the pot in the sink of my shitty apartment. The lone fork.

“Wh…” I clear my throat because I’m struggling to form words. “Where am I?”

“Miss.” He gestures for me to climb out.

I do. Because what else am I going to do? I’m sure he’d have no qualms about dragging me out of the vehicle and into that house.

But if Ezekiel St. James was going to kill me or have me killed, he wouldn’t bring me to his house. DNA. He’d be better off having me run down when I cross a street or something. It’d be easier and less mess for him to clean up. He needs something from me, at least before he kills me.

That’s what I tell myself as I walk in the direction the chauffeur points and enter the vast, cold house. From the little bit of light in the hallway, I see all the furniture is covered with dust cloths. Maybe he had that done since he’s living in Amsterdam now. If this is his house, it would sit empty I guess while he’s away. What do people as rich as Ezekiel St. James do when they go away? It’s not like he’s going to list it on Airbnb or something.

I keep glancing behind me at the driver who still has the collar of his coat turned up, his hat drawn down low on his forehead, those gloves on his big hands.

“Where are we going?” I hear myself ask. I know he won’t answer.

He just tilts his head toward the stairs, and I begin climbing and once I’m on the second-floor landing, I walk down the dark corridor toward the last door, the only door that is ajar, a dim lamp burning inside. I stop just outside of it, every hair on my body standing on end, every instinct on full alert, in panic mode. I’m not sure how I’m keeping it together, actually. Like a duck, on the surface I may look calm but just beneath, I’m paddling like crazy to stay afloat.

“In,” he says.

I look over my shoulder at him. The man is a giant. A solid beast I know I can’t outrun let alone get past. So, I enter the room and before I can even turn around, he’s closed the door and I hear a lock engaging.

A lock on the outside. Of course.

I turn to my surroundings again, a small, sparse room. It’s not a basement though, right? That’s something? There’s carpet here. If he was going to kill me, he wouldn’t do it where there’s a carpet.

It’s a corner room with three windows. Decorative drapes stand open on each. I glance out of one window and regret it instantly when I see the garden’s atmospheric lighting, the vast area beyond dense with trees. That stone wall.

My purse slips from my hand, and I slide my jacket off with it. I’m freezing and sweating at once. I turn my back to the outside and grip the windowsill, squeezing my eyes shut and telling myself to breathe. I wrap my arms around myself and force my eyes open, make myself take it all in, to figure out an exit. An out. Some strategy for when he comes for me. Because he will come, Ezekiel St. James. He’ll want to know how I found out. Where I got my information. If anyone else knows.

And then what? What will he do? Let me walk away? I don’t think so.

Wren.

Does he know about Wren?

Would he hurt her?

Before I can go into a full blow panic, I make my leaden legs move, taking in the sparse furnishings. An armchair. An ottoman. A table and a chair against the wall. That single lamp on top of it. It has a glass base.

I go to it, pick it up. Hold it in two hands. I’d prefer a heavier base, something I can get my hands around and swing. But this, the glass, it’s something. I set it down for now and head to the door that ends up leading to an empty closet. Another one opens into a bathroom. I switch on the light. Only one bulb over the vanity works but it’s enough to show off the marble in the small room, the shower, no bathtub in here. A lone pedestal sink and no cabinets to search. There’s an empty towel rack and an old-fashioned looking toilet, one of those with the bowl high up and a long chain to flush.

I switch on the tap and it hiccups before water spurts out, then begins to pour ice cold. I guess no one has used this bathroom in a while. I cup my hands and drink some then switch it off, wipe my hands on my sweats since there’s no towel. My hair is drying. It’s no longer stuck to my head. There’s no cleaning up the smeared eyeliner. I look like I’ve been through it, and it hasn’t even begun yet.