He laughs in my face. The smell of covered-up cigarette smoke makes me nauseous.
“She had fire too, you know. It's why I was so angry when she said she was leaving me. She was so delicious. That skin. Those delicate hands...”
I look up at him and his mouth curves into a cruel smile. He's enjoying tormenting me with this. He's found a weak spot in my armor and he's pressing it as hard as he can.
“Why did you have to ruin things? I could have been a good father to you,” he says. His voice is soothing and he's put his face into something that looks paternal and caring. It's a mask and I know I can't trust it, but it's hard not too when he looks at me like that. I know that that mask is why he's so successful in politics. People trust him.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, staggering to my feet. I can see again, though I'm still having trouble catching my breath.
“Oh, lots of things.”
“I'll get you what you want. You want campaign money? You can have it,” I tell him. “I have connections.”
“I know you do, but that's not what I need.”
I swallow hard. This is going to be bad. This night is not going to end well.
“You ran from me, Cara. You denied me, you defied me, and you made me come looking for you. I'm not pleased, Cara. Not pleased at all.” He steps toward me and I shrink back as much as possible.
“I'm not my mother,” I whisper. “You killed her.”
“You have no proof.” He shrugs. “But, you are the same as her. Just seeing you fills me with nostalgia. I hear you play piano almost as well as she did.”
“I don't play at all,” I lie. I look around the room, searching for an escape. I can't find one. Panic flutters at the bottom of my ribs and it's taking everything I have not to lose my calm.
“Oh, yes you do. Your favorite is Clair de Lune. You play it almost as well as your mother, but you always off on the arpeggios. You should work on your left hand more.”
My eyes go wide. I've never played in public. I've only ever played in my home and there is no way he should know that I even play it, let alone which hand is struggling.
“You see, Cara, you never escaped me. I knew where you were all along because you belong to me. Your mother was mine and now you're mine.” His lips curve up in a cruel smile.
I hate the way he says my name. It makes my skin crawl and I wish he would call me anything else.
“Why'd you wait ten years?” I ask. I'm proud that my voice doesn't crack. I feel like I'm made of cracks and at any moment, I'll shatter into a million pieces.
“I was busy.” He shrugs as if I can be replaced if he desires. “You aren't my only plaything. I wanted to see what you would do on your own, and frankly, I'm rather disappointed. Though, what should I have expected of trailer-trash in the first place?”
“Fuck you,” I lash out. I'm surprised that his disappointment still hurts and sick that I still have the innate desire to seek his approval. Somehow, I still see him as a father figure from dating my mother.
His hand moves faster than I remember and I suddenly see stars. The pain of
his slap comes only a little bit after, burning and tingling across my cheek. In one smooth motion, he grips my throat again. He squeezes and it hurts more this time. The bruises are already aching.
I see an opportunity and bring my knee up as hard as I can, hoping to catch him off guard. He bats my knee away with his leg as if it's nothing and shakes his head.
“No, no little Cara,” he whispers, sounding like a doting father chastising a petulant child. “You're mine. You need to learn your place.”
I scream, loosing all the power in my lungs in a plea for help. I pray that Ethan hears me, that someone-- anyone-- comes to my rescue. He slams my head against the door. Red blurs my vision and I feel sick to my stomach. I wish I would just black out.
“Go ahead and scream again,” he dares me. He pushes his body against mine and I can feel his superior strength as I struggle. “This place is deserted. No one is going to help you.”
My next scream dies in my throat and I let out a weak whimper instead. Mr. Norwood's eyes burn with darkness. There is no warmth to them. No chance of pity or redemption. The only thing I can see is hate and pain.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. There's much less strength to my words this time, but I am determined to fight him. I'm not the same girl I was ten years ago.
“That won't do, Cara,” he says, using my name like a leash to hold me against my will. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gentle motion is a strange contradiction to the heartlessness he's shown me. “I'm going to have to break you. I will destroy everything you hold dear if you fight me.”
I stubbornly stick my chin out. “I'll stop you.”