Page 55 of Promise of Destruction
It’s a two-car garage, but only one car is in there—a shiny, cherry red Cutlas Supreme. It’s clearly not the original paint, but by looking at it, I’m guessing it’s a 1977. The interior also can’t be original; the leather still smells brand new, and the style doesn’t match with what was typical of the time.
Her husband’s car, I presume.
The other space that would be reserved for a second car is filled with boxes and storage totes, some labeled in the loopy open penmanship I recognize from Soren’s signatures on our contract, some unlabeled. A glance up at the ceiling assures me there’s an attic, so why isn’t this stuff up there?
Maybe she avoids the garage because of the car. Maybe she doesn’t have the energy to put all this shit in the attic—that’s not much of a stretch when you consider the fact that she couldn’t be bothered to clear her own pantry.
There’s no good reason for me to do it, but I grab the cord that dangles from the attic. It’s too short for Soren to reach, which may be the real reason she hasn’t endeavored to clean up her garage. The cased stairs pull down with a little resistance and I climb them easily, drawing my shoulders in so that I can fit through the opening… only to be met with a door.
Maybe they’d once planned for an attic room before deciding to close the space off. It’s weird, but not the strangest thing I’ve seen in this house. That is, until I notice the deadbolt on the outside of it. A quick jiggle of the door handle proves it is, in fact, locked.
I’m just stepping backwards down the ladder when my phone rings. I’d forgotten it was in my pocket, but now I pull it out and glance at the caller ID. Crime never ceases, so it isn’t unusual for my phone to ring in the dead of night. But it’s weird when I haven’t been expecting anyone to get in touch.
The name on the ID causes a lump to rise in my throat.
Being on the payroll of some of the most vile humans I could have ever imagined puts you in touch with a lot of people. People who, even if you like them, make your stomach twist when you see their name on your phone.
thirty-six
Soren
Idon’trememberfallingasleep. I don’t remember anything from the time between Marissa and Khan showing up to me startling awake, gasping for air, unable to breathe no matter how hard I try.
My face is wet with tears. I don’t remember the dream, but I’m sure it was much the same as the ones before… blood, pain, death.
But this time, there’s something different. Hands on my throat, in my hair. A firm touch on my hips, grinding against my bones. It’s not the loving embrace of my husband and it doesn’t correlate to any memory I have.
Because it’s just a dream.
I wipe my face with the backs of my hands and then become aware of the nausea. When I move, liquid sloshes in my stomach like waves crashing against the side of a boat. I need something to soak up the alcohol or I’ll be throwing it up for the next twenty-four hours.
The whole way to the kitchen I can’t shake the fog of a bruising touch, another man’s foul breath on the nape of myneck. Combined with the roiling of my stomach, I’m unable to focus on anything else—until the sharp slice of my skin splitting opens steals all of my attention. A cry escapes me, and I jump on instinct, not wanting my foot to touch the ground with a shard of glass still embedded in it. The action brings my other foot into contact with more glass, which crunches under my weight and bites into the soles of my feet.
The damn plates. Fuck.
I press my hand over my mouth, trying not to whimper lest it come out with the rest of the contents of my stomach, and survey my kitchen.
What the hell did we do?
My first step into the midst of the wreckage had been unaware, and the next had only taken me deeper into the wreckage. There’s no clear path back past the mess without stepping over more of it.
My garage door bursts open, startling me. I think my heart may jump out of my chest—especially when the figure steps into the light and I realize I know him. Instinct demands I take a step back, so I do.
Fuck.
This was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Damn Marissa and her awful ideas. It had felt so much more glorious than therapy in the moment, but my poor feet are now paying the price.
Declan closes the space between us and scoops me against him before I even get a chance to ask what he’s doing there.
Oh God.
No.
“Put me down!” I yell, twisting to get out of his grip. It only prompts him to hold me tighter against his broad chest.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He scolds me.
He doesn’t even look at me as he carries me to my bedroom.
