He shakes me once.
“Yes!” I answer.
“Good. Because if you do, if you ever fucking do, you’ll be begging me to let you live out your days in that room in the cellar to escape my punishment. Am I very fucking clear?”
I swallow hard, my entire body shuddering, the bathroom suddenly freezing. I nod. I don’t stop nodding until he releases me letting the towel drop and turning to walk out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
10
Isabelle
My hands tremble as I bend to pick up the towel. I lock the bathroom door although he’s gone. I know that. But I need to do it.
Hugging the towel around my shoulders I sit down on the closed toilet seat. I’m shivering, so I draw my legs up to hug my knees.
He hates me.
Before my family was killed, I had only ever been loved. My parents and Christian, we all loved each other. Then Carlton took me in. I still wonder why he did it. At first, I’d thought it was because I am his half-sister. That he felt something for me given we share blood. But later, as I got to know him, as I saw how he was with Julia, our cousin, versus how he was with me, it became obvious he took me in because he had to. He’s cooler with me, cold even. Like he is with his wife, Monique. Although she was mostly gone the three years I lived at the Bishop house during their trial separation. I don’t know how long that trial will last. According to Julia, her miscarriages had driven them apart.
But that’s not what’s on my mind now. It’s Jericho St. James.
His hate for me is different than Carlton’s. No, it’s not that Carlton hates me. He’s indifferent to me or at worst, dislikes me. Jericho St. James hates me. And to be hated is a terrible feeling.
I shudder and force myself to stand, to dry off completely. Securing the towel around me, I look at my reflection in the mirror which is still slightly foggy around the edges. I look tired, the skin under my eyes tinged blue, my face pale. My hair needs to be combed out but a quick glance through the two drawers only reveals a comb with teeth too close together so I gather it up and twist it, wringing out as much moisture as I can before setting it over my shoulder.
I don’t know what he expects of me. Am I supposed to go back out there? Go downstairs? Wait here for him? And what does he want from me? Why am I here at all?
Before I can decide what to do I hear the door in the bedroom open and close. My heartbeat picks up although I’m not sure it’s him. The two times he’s made an entrance or exit with me he’s slammed the doors.
But when there’s a soft knock on the bathroom door, I jump back.
“Isabelle?” comes a woman’s voice. “I have some clothes for you. Come on out. I’m sure you’re hungry, too, and breakfast is ready.”
She sounds older. And her tone is not unkind.
“He’s not here,” she adds as if she might know why I’m holed up in here.
I force myself to walk to the door, unlock and open it. On the other side the woman steps back giving me space. When our eyes meet, she smiles and although it’s a neutral smile, I see the worry in her eyes.
“I’m Leontine St. James,” she says. “Jericho is my son.”
“Oh.” He has a mother. Even monsters have mothers.
She takes a breath in, walks to the bed, and starts to straighten the covers. I guess Jericho St. James is above making his own bed.
I see familiar clothes lying on top of it. A pair of jeans and a cornflower blue top, mine, along with a pair of sandals. Also mine.
“Where did you get those?” I ask her when she’s finished with the bed.
“Jericho had your things brought over early this morning. And your room is almost ready. I’m sure he’ll show it to you after breakfast. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll take you downstairs.” She steps closer and glances at the mess that is my hair. “I’ll give you a few minutes to dress and I’ll see if I can find you a brush, all right?”
I nod.
She smiles and leaves the room. I consider locking it but instead I hurry to get dressed, seeing a pair of light pink panties and a matching bra underneath the clothes. They’re not mine but the tags are still on, so I quickly tug them off and dress. Better than going without. I’ve just zipped up my jeans when the soft knock on the door comes again before she opens it to peek her head in, only entering once she’s seen I’m dressed.
“That’s a lovely color on you,” she says of the blue Henley. I glance down, consider buttoning the top button which I usually leave undone but leave it.
She hands over a wooden hairbrush and a spray bottle of detangler.