His to Keep by Lydia Goodfellow
Chapter Seven
Hours pass in a blur. Helpless tears create a path of sorrows streaming down my cheeks. They drip onto the floor, and as they soak into the wood, I think, how sick. Even the house is feeding off my despair. The way the old pipes moan behind the walls, and the floorboards shudder from any slight movement—a sigh of sick happiness.
My head’s a mess, and I’m unable to stop agonizing over every detail that’s transpired so far. Did I miss something? Were there warning signs?
I never liked Father Aaron, but it doesn’t mean he’d do this. People don’t have to be psychopaths to be disliked, though Father Aaron obviously is, which he hid well. How could the church allow such a man, a man of God, to take over the parish?
Lifting my eyes to the window, golds and yellows mix with light and dark blues. Almost nighttime and another day gone. My thoughts return to earlier, as I know they will often now, that girl forever engraved into my mind.
After what felt like hours sitting in the tub with the shower running overhead, I scrubbed my skin clean until I was raw. Callum came back to help me out. I didn’t want him to, not after pathetically clinging to him downstairs, but I couldn’t seem to tell him to leave me alone. Truthfully, I don’t think I would’ve gotten out if it weren’t for him.
His eyes didn’t wander as he wrapped me in a towel and took me back into the room. The instant I stepped inside, I ran to the corner I was in before and huddled there again. At least with my back to the wall, no one could sneak up behind me, but I won’t make the same mistake twice. I’ll sleep on the bed if it means I never have to go back into that room to be taught a lesson again.
It’s been hours since then, and Father Aaron hasn’t returned. Callum sits at his desk, and he’s been scribbling in his black book for hours. I wish he would stop and help me make sense of what happened today. He hadn’t been shocked to see that dead girl. He wasn’t surprised. My empty stomach churns. Callum’s reaction means this wasn’t Father Aaron’s first kill, and I fear I’m going to be next.
* * *
Sunlight spillsthrough the gap in the curtains as birds sing their morning song. A sound that I never minded before being stuck inside. Now, I’m irritated by it, wishing clouds would roll in and scare them away. Get rid of the sun, because outside feels mocking.
Father Aaron left us all night, and I barely slept. I miss my bed at home and did nothing but toss and turn. Callum wasn’t at his desk when I woke, but I relaxed when I heard water gushing in the bathroom. It’s been an hour since and he still hasn’t come out. As I begin to wonder what he’s doing in there, the bedroom door flies open without warning. John stomps inside, carrying a large wicker basket. Dropping it by the bed, I crane my neck to peer into it. More dresses, underwear, and shoes.
At that exact moment, Callum emerges, and I’m briefly distracted by his stiff posture and movement. There’s something about him that doesn’t seem right until my eyes squint harder, and I see it. Blood.
Seeping from cuts on his arm, there are five straight lines slashed across his pale skin. His eyes darken when he notices me looking, and he moves to shield his arm behind his back. A silent way of telling me to mind my own business, only it’s too late. Why did he do that?
“He wants you both to get dressed. Dinners at six.” John goes to leave but stops. My stomach clenches when he glances at me, and my grip tightens on the thin towel that’s barely covering me. I glare back at him, and with a smirk on his face, he finally leaves, slamming the door behind him and locking it.
As Callum pulls on a shirt, I inspect what’s in the basket, my hands shaking as I sort through the dresses folded inside. All white, all made from the same cotton and lace. Even the matching panty and bra sets are white, everything in my size—even the flat pumps and heels. There’s a pink toiletry bag at the bottom. Reaching for it, I pull the zipper across, my face scrunching with shame at the sanitary pads inside. I’m not due for another few weeks, but my stomach rolls anyway, hating the idea that Father Aaron got them for me. There’s also a comb, toothbrush, razor, and a pink bar of soap wrapped in clear cellophane. A ball lodges in my throat, knowing all these things can only mean one thing. Father Aaron isn’t planning on letting me go. Does it mean he’s not going to murder me? He’s going to keep me.
My bottom lip wobbles as I mindlessly pick out something to wear. Tucking the items under my arm, as I go to move into the bathroom, I see Callum’s already dressed, and the cuts on his arm darken the fabric of his sleeve.
“Why did you do that?” The words fly out of my mouth. A frown creases his forehead, and he says nothing. I know I should drop it, but I can’t—
“Don’t,” he cuts off my next question sharply as if he knows the probing question rests on my tongue.
He’s annoyed, maybe nervous, and I decide to leave it. I go into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, trying my best to abandon my thoughts about him and why he’d do that. Maybe it’s better not knowing what goes on inside people’s heads because you might end up seeing something that frighteningly resembles what goes on in your own. And I don’t want to have anything in common with him. I don’t want to know him.
After getting dressed, I go over to the tiny mirror and stare at my reflection. How strange. I don’t look like myself anymore and it’s only been a couple days. My skin has gone pale, my lips light pink, and my eyes still red from crying. I hate it. Hate that I’m starting to resemble these people.
Reaching for the bag, I comb the knots out of my hair and scrub my teeth clean. It helps just a little, but I still look awful. Just as I set the toothbrush down in the cup next to Callum’s, there’s a faint knock on the door before it opens. Callum stands in the doorway, and he stares at me longer than usual, taking in my appearance. The dress I picked out is modest, though shorter than I would’ve liked, coming just above the knee. It has lace around the hem and bust. Pretty, I guess, even if I don’t feel pretty in it.
He quickly lowers his gaze. “I need the bathroom.”
“Oh, sorry.” Walking forward, I quickly slip past him. But as I do, my shoulder accidentally brushes against his. Jerking away, he goes inside and forcibly slams the door behind him. I jump from the noise, and as I sit on the bed to put on the shoes, his reaction bothers me more than it should.
He doesn’t like me.
It’s an alarming thought. I haven’t considered what he thinks of me until now. While he’s impossible to read, I know I don’t like the idea of being locked in a room with someone who might hate me.
Something catches my eye. Callum’s book lies open on top of his desk, the cord unraveled. Even the short length I’ve been here, I know he’s particular about putting it away and making sure it’s not left out. My teeth nibble on my bottom lip, knowing it’s wrong to pry. But I’m across the room before I’ve talked myself out of it and turning to a random page. I need to know what’s in it. What he spends so much of his time doing. That’s what I tell myself as I look at the page I’ve landed on.
I’m stunned by what I see. The page is filled with a drawing in pencil, not a space untouched. I’m shocked by his talent. Of the black and white valley drenched in silvery moonlight, so intricately detailed, it’s like I’m standing in the meadow next to the silhouetted person in the tall, shaded grass. Gazing out at the shadowed snow-covered mountains in the distance. It’s breathtaking and haunting. The trees with their twisted branches and how the moon reflects off the surface of a puddle on a dirt-trodden path. The mist skulking along the edges of a fence. It makes me want to be outside. There. Maybe that’s why he drew it. Perhaps he wants to be there too, which might mean he wants to get out of here—
A hand suddenly crashes down on top of the journal, and I scream. Callum stands next to me, his fingers spread out over the cover. I hadn’t heard him come out of the bathroom, and I curse at myself for being so stupid as he slowly turns to glare at me. Grabbing the book, he wraps the cord around it, barely restraining his anger.
“I’m sorry.” I shouldn’t have looked. I intruded on his privacy—his secret world. I’d be annoyed if anyone did that to me.
Hands trembling, he pulls open the desk drawer and throws it inside, hiding away all that dark beauty I’d love to see more of. “Don’t do that again,” he orders, running fingers through his hair and breathing out heavily with evident frustration.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say. I have to defuse the tension between us. “Did you draw that?” I know he did, but I want to ask anyway.
He avoids eye contact. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing? I shake my head. “You’re incredibly talented.”
“How?”
“Pardon?”
“How am I talented?” he asks quietly as if what I said is so unbelievable. My cheeks burn from complimenting him in the first place as he waits patiently for my answer. This is the first time we’ve engaged in a conversation, and it’s an altercation.
“I only saw one page.” My heart thumps hard against my ribs. “But it was beautiful.” I mess with the lace of my dress, wanting more than anything to hide from the embarrassment pouring through me, especially after I say, “It spoke to me. That’s how I know. I wanted to be there.”
Although there’s not much space in this room, when he moves away, I know it’s his way of signaling it’s the end of the conversation. Going over to the window, it’s as if he’s uncertain by his next move. He’s either shocked or so angry he doesn’t know what to do. By how he responded, I’m going with the latter. He undeniably hates me, and I wish I knew why.