Page 16 of Fire Fight

There isn’t the faintest whisper of sound from inside the wardrobe. I know before flinging the door wide that nobody is in there.

Sobs grip me as I stagger back to sit on the bed, doubling over in misery. This can’t be real. It doesn’t make any sense.

A horrible thought bubbles up from my confusion. That I did this myself.

It’s the only reasonable explanation.

There are sharpies in the pen holder on the desk. I must have used them. I’ve heard all the nightmare tales of people sleepwalking on Ambien. Doing things they later can’t remember.

Committingmurder.

Fuck.

I cry, breath hitching with great gulping sobs. The pills were a way to make things better. Now I’ve scared myself shitless and made things worse.

When the curling iron falls from my numb fingers, it brings me back to my senses. The shower is still running, filling the rooms with steam.

I lunge through the connecting door, shed my sleepwear, and get into the cubicle. I douse myself with the heated water, first rubbing at the marks with my hands, then a loofah. Pumping out body wash until the suds obscure the text.

Scrubbing with all my might does nothing except turn my skin lobster red. If the ink has faded, it’s just from losing layers of skin cells.

The message is still legible. The horror is just as deep.

I slump to the floor of the shower and sit there for long minutes, dull, confused. Finally, my tears have the desired effect, bringing a dopey calm in their wake.

Yes, it’s horrible. Yes, I need to flush the rest of the bottle and never take one again, but it’s not like I walked off the cliff edge and plunged to my death. The message is a shocking insight into my struggling brain. Other than that, it’s harmless.

As I dry myself, I compose a new list. Ashford Crest is posh enough to have proper counselling staff. I’ll talk to someone and if they’re not helping, I’ll ask for a referral.

Arnold is loaded. Surely, he won’t skimp on a request for help.

My eyes shy away from the mirror until I’m dressed, then I quickly comb and pull my hair into an elastic.

“Honey?” Mum calls out just as I’m finishing. “Are you up yet?”

“Coming.”

I glance at the time, managing the faintest ghost of a smile. Her asking me that question is a change. Usually, I’m the one tapping on her door. But I’ll hazard a guess, Arnold isn’t one for Sunday morning lie-ins. He was at work yesterday, and I can picture him having a timetable planned for the entire day.

“Blaine’s here,” my mother says from the bottom of the stairs, giving me a peck on the cheek as I join her. “You’ll like him. He’s such a polite young man.”

She leads me to the kitchen, and I wonder if Arnold ever uses his actual dining room for meals. Given the size of the table in there—at least enough for twenty guests—I’d guess not.

When I walk in behind her, Arnold glances up expectantly, eyes twinkling in their startling blue.

“Good morning. My son has finally graced us with his presence.” The boy turns and fear sends a shockwave through my system. “Cadence, this is Blaine.”

Except it’s not. And it’s not a stranger.

It’s Drake.

CHAPTER SIX

DRAKE

I waitfor the gasp of shock. The pointed accusation. For Cadence to run to her mother and collapse into her arms while my egregious father decides whether he wants to keep his son or his insane-but-incredibly-hot-fuck-buddy in the house.

Instead, she freezes until her mother gives her a little push, and laughs. “Guess we should warn you both, we’re not morning people.”

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