Page 93 of Forbidden Lessons

Bastian

The Uber driver gives me a grudging nod of admiration before he reverses his car out of my driveway and heads back to civilization. I suppose I should be glad my house is appealing. It fucking took long enough to build. And cost me twice what I’d been quoted.

I lean back, staring up at the monstrosity. Strategically placed spotlights pick out details in the architecture that make the structure all that much more imposing.

A sharp angle here. Rough, textured concrete there.

I blink when water hits my eye.

Fuck it, what am I doing standing here in the rain?

Oh, right. I was too fucking drunk to drive home, and now I’m pondering why the hell I built myself such a depressing house.

I’m chuckling to myself as I head for the front door. It picks up my cellphone in my pocket and unlocks with a faint click. I track a few steps of mud onto the carpet before I remember to take off my shoes.

It’s barely drizzling outside, but it’s been going at it for over two hours. The roads are slippery, and as much as I trust myTesla to get me home safely despite that, I sure as fuck don’t trust myself.

I slip out of my jacket and toss it over the back of the sofa as I pass on my way to the kitchen.

Now that I’m home, I can keep on drinking.

My hands move automatically to my wrists, unbuttoning my cuffs. Then to my throat, unbuttoning my shirt.

I veer to the fireplace, turn it on, watch the flames spring up out of thin air to dance and flicker along the row of pebbles. They illuminate the furniture, ensuring I won’t walk into anything, so I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights.

Should have come straight home instead of stopping off at that bar. But The Eden House, Evelyn’s frail care home, is an hour’s drive past Ashwood Crossing, and as soon I hit the borders of this pathetic little town, I couldn’t wait anymore.

It’s her fucking gift. The one in my bag I so desperately want to throw in the trash. The one I so desperately want to open.

I can’t get it out of my head.

Why does it feel so fucking heavy?

Exactly why it’s still in my satchel, unopened.

Might never tear open that pretty giftwrapping.

Silent rebellion.

I laugh, shaking my head as I step into the kitchen. There’s a stab of pain from my hand, and I stare at the dent in the refrigerator door. Then I laugh again, because Jesus Christ, just when I think I have my shit under control, I assault my household appliances.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I’ve never had control. Not then, not now.

One way or the other, that cunt Evelyn will ensure that I read?—

I spin around, staring into my bedroom. Could have sworn I just heard something in there. A muted, clandestine sound, not meant to carry.

No one could have gotten inside. I have alarms. Burglar proofing. And they’d have to find this fucking place first. I mean, it’s isolated for a reason.

I rarely enjoy other people’s company.

My feet are silent on the thick carpets as I pad toward the bedroom. I detour slightly, grabbing the ornamental iron poker from its stand.

Feels as heavy as that fucking book.

I heft it, tightening my grip. Preparing myself for whatever—or whoever—is waiting in the gloom of my sanctum.

But when I flick on the light, no one tries to attack me. Nothing scurries away, back into the dark.

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