“I have a headache tonight. I’m sorry.” I rub my forehead to make the fake excuse seem real. I also shield my eyes in the darkness. I have never been good at lying. James will be able to see right through my excuses.
“You shouldn’t have gone to your mother’s grave. I warned you about it. You’re simply not strong enough to handle it on your own. Did you take something for your headache?”
I nod and begin to walk away from him. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone.” More lies tumble from my lips as I agree with his misdiagnosis. My days as his patient are marked, because I am checking out of here. With my back to him, I let myself smile in victory. I imagine Sin giving me an encouraging grin that I am making my own choices, or at least trying to.
“I better get some rest.” I make it to the stairs before he says anything back to me. Emboldened, I’m tempted to race up them. He will not touch me tonight—hell, he’ll never “fuck” me, as he says, again. In the back of my mind, a small voice tells me I have the strength to leave James. The voice sounds a lot like Sin’s.
Chapter Nineteen
Sin
I’m standing behind the closed door in the guest bedroom with my ear pressed hard against the wood. I strain to hear anything in the house—footsteps, voices, or possibly a door shutting—but I don’t pick up a single sound other than my own heartbeat pounding loud and fast in my head.
Two sides war in my mind. Part of me wants to check on Harlow in case she needs me. I can still picture her soft eyes looking at me through tears. An ache forms in my chest and my shoulders collapse. I have this overwhelming desire to bust into their bedroom, throw Harlow over my shoulder, and take her far away from James’ reach. But a small part warns me to stay put in this room, not get involved, and stuff away my worries. It’s the selfish, cowardly part of me that sees my own future and nothing else.
My better half wins out. I turn the doorknob and step out into near darkness. All the lights in the house are off except a lone table lamp to give me some guidance in the hallway.
An eerie stillness fills the air around me and I wipe my hands over my clothes. I decide to walk downstairs to grab a glass of water even though I’m not thirsty. It gives me an excuse for wandering around after James escorted me to the room.
Before James headed to his bedroom, he told me we had brunch tomorrow morning at the club. Then, after brunch, we would head over to his condo downtown. He said it would be closer to the “action.” His devilish wink that followed spoke volumes.
I think he wants me away from his prisoner. He likely noticed the connection I feel with her. There’s no way he missed it. There seems to be an innate perception between us that goes beyond words or reason; the kind of familiarity that occurs without even a thought. I can read her face and eyes like I’ve known her all my life.
How could I tell him my true desire would be to stay here in his house close to her? I am his guest and he’s pushing me out the door. I can’t really shove back. At least, not now—not when Harlow hasn’t asked me for help.
Continuing my trek toward the stairs, I pass by their master suite. My steps slow and I crank my head toward their bedroom door.
Nothing … not a sound.
I pace outside the door for a few minutes, wondering what’s going on behind the closed door. A vision of Harlow tied up and helpless races through my mind. The unknown makes me jittery in my own skin.
Confused and defeated, I change my mind about going downstairs for a drink and head back to my room. I find some sweats and a T-shirt where I stashed my suitcase in the closet. My eye catches Harlow’s old purse on the closet shelf and I reach for it, then pull out the book of poetry I found last night.
Her purse drops on the carpeted floor by my feet and I bend to pick it up. There’s an open box of books sitting beneath her old hung clothes and I bring it out closer to inspect the contents. Jane Eyre, Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray—one after one, I find great classic novels along with a few dead poet books. One consistent theme is human suffering—hearts struggling with love or the judgment of man.
I wonder how a young woman without a college education can sound so mature and possess such an old soul. The books before me speak to her self-possessed education. She learned from the masters about life, love, and the human condition.
I shuffle through a few more titles and spot a rather tattered spiral binder. The front cover is a sunny yellow with the words, “Poetry by Harlow Masters,” written in black marker.
I flip through the notebook and find page after page of poems. A surprising excitement rushes over me, like I’ve won the damn jackpot. I push back the thought of whether peeking into her poetry without permission is right or wrong.
I shove the box back under the clothes and walk to the bed with the notebook in my hands, itching to dive in.