Page 71 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rosie

Rosie stayed behind the bedroom door for what felt like hours. She gave a shiver, one that went all the way down her back. And although she was cold, she hadn’t yet dried her hair, and the damp from it soaked through her robe. Every time she moved, the cold, wet fabric made her wince, but it felt like if she let go of the door and made a move to get dressed, Maria would somehow find herself in the bedroom.

Something crashing to the floor followed the sound of the toilet flushing. Rosie bit her lip, her hand on the handle, but there was no way she was going out there, only if Maria called and sounded hurt.

She heard Maria walking and mumbling to herself. Rosie didn’t need to listen to the words to know they would be directed at her. She held her breath, listening and praying that Maria wouldn’t come her way. She didn’t have it in her to do another showdown with the woman, especially if William wasn’t in the house. Maria’s words were lethal. Unlike that old saying, sticks and stones, and all that … words did hurt. They hurt in ways it was so hard to describe.

It was a relief when Maria went down the stairs, but it was like William had said, and maybe she’d never really believed it, but the ailing woman … the woman who claimed her stroke was worse than any doctor would care to admit, could get herself up the stairs.

She’d lied. There was nothing else to say or think about it.

And even though Maria’s footsteps weren’t as fast as someone half her age, they also weren’t the slow drag of the invalid she pretended to be. If Rosie could have just willed William to get home right at the moment, but he would be ages yet. Not that William needed proof. It was his suggestion his mother was pretending.

Rosie had her hand pressed to her stomach, and the familiar wave of nausea rolled over her, settling itself in the pit of her belly.

Not now. Please not now. She didn’t dare move, because if she did, there was a good chance she was going to retch. She belched, and the feeling subsided.

It was only when Rosie heard the front lounge door closing; she moved away from the door. She was half tempted to make a dash back to the bathroom and get a small towel for her hair, but it was too late for that. It had started to dry in thick tendrils of hair. In an hour it would be a frizzy mess that would be impossible to tame, but it was already beyond repair for the day now.

She dressed quickly. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and then a sweater on top of that. She did use the hairdryer, but just enough so she could brush her hair out and then pull it back into a ponytail. William liked it when it was up, anyway. Though she suspected William would have said that about anything. The thought of him made her smile, but then at the same time, with his mother downstairs, she wondered how many times he had hidden in this room and listened for his mother. How many times had he been locked in here and afraid?

Her heart broke for the little boy he’d once been. It was hard to remind herself he was a man now—a grown up able to take care of himself, and her. What was it with parents?

“Oh, shit …” The envelope. She’d left it in the bathroom, with Maria. Oh, God … no.

What kind of idiot was she?

Rosie pulled open the door, but she stayed still for a second, waiting in case Maria would dare to come out. When she didn’t, Rosie tiptoed to the bathroom, not wanting to disturb the woman.

This was crazy, though. Skulking around her own home. But it was more than Rosie could bear to do right then. Maybe tomorrow she could fight for her freedom around the house. Perhaps tomorrow.

The envelope was on the small table where the radio was. It was propped up, her name facing front. Maria had put it there, angled it on purpose for someone to see. William maybe. Rosie dashed across the bathroom to get it but stopped the moment the sight inside of the toilet caught her gaze. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and retched.

“Oh, dear God. Oh no … no ….” Turning away was the only way to not look at what Maria had left in the bowl, but Rosie kept seeing it in her head. She took a step backwards, reached out and flushed the toilet. “You’re disgusting.”

Was it always going to be like this? A one-woman vendetta against Rosie? She hoped not. She grabbed the letter and dashed back to the bedroom with it before she did throw up for real and face the terrible dilemma of throwing up in the toilet Maria had just used or bending herself over the bathroom sink.

Back in the bedroom, though, she wasn’t as brave as she had been a moment ago as she fingered the envelope, just picking at the seal on it. She dared to peel it back just a little and wished William was sitting with her, but then, on the other hand, she was glad he wasn’t. Whatever was in this letter would be something that would strike her in the guts. Another blow from her parents and the only way they knew—with precision that got her every single time.

The envelope was large, and her name was handwritten on the front. She’d have recognised her father’s handwriting anywhere, but she also knew that this would be some kind of legal document. It felt that way with the thick paper and the embossment on the back for her father’s firm.

Another breath and she peeled back the flap enough to see a logo embossed into the paper. Her stomach clenched and maybe this time, she would be sick. She could hardly breathe as it was and pulling the paper out of the envelope was making her pulse rise with every millimetre of paper.

Her father’s name was splashed across the paper, but the words were a blur when she tried to read them. It was bad enough because she couldn’t hold the pages. Her hands trembled. Her parents didn’t even need to be in the same room to make her feel the way she was feeling right then.

She got her phone off the side and scrolled to her father’s name like she’d done a hundred times in her life, but this time, the sense of dread rolling around inside her seemed worse, deeper even. She closed her eyes as she waited for her father to answer.

“Rosie …”

“Are you serious,” Rosie said. It seemed like that was fast becoming her catchphrase with these people. “What you have in this letter.”

“We wondered when you would call,” her mother said.

“No. I want to speak to my father. Not you.”

It wasn’t hard to picture her mother’s face. The look of shock she’d have on it, trying to garner sympathy for the terrible daughter she had.

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