Page 112 of Bound to a Killer
A few short moments later, I pull into the long, empty driveway, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel with restless energy and a thread of residual nervousness.
They might not even be home.
That’s best-case scenario. But even if they are…they’ve got nothing on me. I’m eighteen and fully grown. I don’t owe them anything, least of all Steven, who shouldn’t even be here to begin with.
I breathe out, slow and steady, then kill off the engine and reach for the door.
I head straight for the garage, not bothering to checkbeneath the front doormat for a spare key. I already know it won’t be there anymore. Instead, I jab in the code on the corroded keypad, crouch low, and slip beneath the rising door as soon as it lifts high enough to let me through.
Inside, I’m met with the sharp scent of alcohol, and my stomach sours. Shattered glass glints across the floor, the jagged ends of broken cups and plates strewn across the scuffed vinyl floors of the kitchen. My pulse kicks higher as I angle past the larger shards, my footsteps still crunching over loose bits, residue from the volatile environment that will soon swallow the rest of the house.
I stop at the far end of the kitchen, the narrow path between the front door and the staircase, and hold my breath, ears straining for the slightest sound.
But nothing.
It’s eerily silent.
Swallowing down my trepidation, I swing over the bottom of the rail, carefully stepping up and pausing when a stair creaks beneath me, my heart thudding loud in my ears. For crying out loud, I shouldn’t be tiptoeing through my own house. They’re not even home.
I continue up, faster now, though I still wince with every creak, like I’m sneaking through some post-apocalyptic world where even the softest sound can trigger an unseen danger waiting to strike.
Blowing out a breath, I turn into my room, the first one on the right, and nearly stumble back at the sight of a moving figure on my bed.
“M-Mom,” I choke out, heart thrashing as I try to steady it. “What are you doing in my room?”
She glances back at me, blinking through a stream of tears, one of her brown almond-shaped eyes blooming with varying shades of gnarly violet along the delicate skin, a corner of my bedsheet tangled in her trembling hands.
“What are you doing back so early?”
Her voice is raspier than usual, too weak to carry across the room without flinching from the effort. My gaze trails to the ugly bruises blooming over her neck in the shape of fingers. Long, stubby fingers.Steven’sfingers.
Against my better judgment, my heart aches, teeth sinking into my quivering lips to stop myself from saying something reckless, something I’ll regret.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I fist my hands at my sides, nails digging into my skin as I swallow against the rising lump in my throat. “So, that’s it, then? You’re choosing that slob over your daughter? Even after knowing what he did to me?”
I can’t stop the bitter tears from rising, my voice cracking as I spit the words out like an idiot. Coming back here makes me the biggest idiot of all.
This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know I ever came back. No one needed to witness how pathetic I’ve become.
For a brief, brain-altering moment, the meek woman in front of me goes rigid, her knuckles straining white over the rich mauve of my blanket. “I’d never choose him over you,” she says quietly.
I haul in a deep breath, pushing the tears back. I swore I’d never cry over her again. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you to fix this,” she says, her eyes dropping to her hands. “It’s all my fault that we’re here.”
Yeah. Damn right it is.
“Why’d you come back, Mom?”
Her brows knit together, the deep wrinkle between them tugging at the fragile part of my heart I’ve tried so hard to repress through the years.
“After that police officer called, I-I had to come back. I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“No, don’t say that,” I snap, whipping my head back, like her performative concern has turned into an airborne virus that’s drifted over and infected me. “You know you don’t get to say that.”
She slouches as she lifts the hem of her sunflower-yellow shirt to dab at her gleaming eyes, the bright fabric only drawing more attention to the bruise beneath her eye.
