Page 75 of Eyes in the Shadows

Eleanor

But now the reckoning is here

It has to have been 10 minutes since I last looked at the clock, right? I mean, I got lost in my thoughts for at least that long and it feels like it’s been a fucking eternity. I spit out the thumbnail I just chewed off and let my knees fall to the sides. I can’t stand it anymore. I look.

12:21 AM.

It’s been three minutes.

Ugh! Fuck this.

I jump out of bed and head down to the kitchen. I need to chop something. Or bake.

The problem with baking is that it’s too precise—too recipe driven—and I don’t have anything memorized well enough that I wouldn’t need my phone. And the problem with a perfectly diced mirepoix is that it’s busy work. It gives me something to do with my hands, but isn’t mindful enough that my brain shuts off. But it’s better than nothing, even if I’m still sick with worry and doubt and questions without answers and no way to contact anyone.

So, mirepoix it is.

The next time I look up, it’s 12:47 AM. Mac still isn’t back, but I’m sure that whatever he set out to do is done. People are… dead.

But, how many? And is he all right? Fear knots in my stomach.

No. I have to assume he’s okay. It’s the only way I’ll get through the night.

But, then, what if he is okay, and they got their guy? What happens now? Like… is this… is it done? Do I go back to…

My chest tightens and I have to hold back tears.

I put down the knife and curse the onions, wiping under my eyes.

For a moment there, I really thought I was doing a good job of not getting too far ahead of myself. Or living in a world that doesn’t actually exist; one where I get to stay here, be here with Mac, and feed these guys—who I genuinely, really like—forever.

I told myself shit like “it’ll just be easier to use the closet instead of trying to live out of the suitcase” and, “it’s really more economical to buy the 25-pound bag of flour, I’m sure I’ll get through it.” But really, I’ve been making decisions based on the assumption that I’ll be staying. That this doesn’t have to end.

And days ago, this conclusion still felt like an infinite amount of time away. I didn’t have to think about it yet. But now the reckoning is here, and I’m so emotionally invested that I’m going to be completely crushed by it.

I toss a thick-bottomed pot on the stove and start cooking the carrots, onions and celery. It may be 1 AM, but it’s never too late—early?—for a pot pie.

The pie crust is just coming together when I hear the front door open and a deep laugh fill the foyer. It echoes off the marble, sounding right next to me in the kitchen. I drop the dough and walk towards the hallway.

“—and then it’s really just a matter of a password cracking program and enough juice. Any lag might have lost us the truck.”

“What is this, false modesty? It does not suit you,” Dimitri says with a scoff. It almost sounds like a joke.

Wesley’s low chuckle sounds. “Well, what about that road closure sign? Stroke of genius—”

They stop as I step into the opening between the double stairs. Mac is hanging his coat, his back to me, and Dimitri is toeing off his boots. A bruise is forming on his jaw, purple and swollen, and blood has dripped and dried into a crusty line under one of his nostrils.

“You are still awake,” Dimitri observes. He’s looking at me cautiously, like a horse he doesn’t want to spook.

“Where’s Mac?” I look between them and don’t miss the glance they exchange. “Oh my God… Is he—” Why is there suddenly no air in this room?

“He’s fine,” Wesley says, stepping forward and grabbing my hand. “Calm down, Eleanor. Breathe. We spoke with him on the phone not long ago. He’ll be along.”

I force in a deep breath. Wesley really does have kind eyes, and I find it easy to believe the things he says. I nod. “Okay.”

He squeezes my hand, then let’s go. He opens his mouth to say something else, but looks down and makes a face. “What’s on your hands?”

“Oh, flour.”

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