The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

“Congratulations.”

“Fine.” I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not like I have to do the laundry around here.”

Narrowed eyes met mine, and I held them in challenge. After a stare-off that lasted longer than anyone sane would be comfortable with, Yulia moved to the bed and untied my wrists with the quick type of skill that conveyed this wasn’t her first time dealing with ropes or pets.

When I was free, I stared at my expression in the bathroom mirror. I looked like the college girl in a gory horror film who got killed first by a chainsaw. Considering the stupidity that got me into this situation . . . how apt a comparison. My stomach grew queasy, so I turned the shower to hot, stripped, and stood under the spray of water.

Red swirled down the drain, and at the sight, cold prickles erupted on the back of my neck. The memory crashed into me like a tidal wave, snatched the beating heart from my chest, and let it sink to the depths of the Atlantic.

Holding Mr. Bunny by his droopy ear, I watched the shiny red car pull into the drive from my window. I’d only seen the woman a couple of times after Papa put me to bed and thought I was sleeping.

I frowned, remembering the day before, when I told the neighbor boy I didn’t have a mother. He looked at me like I was so dumb, and then, he said everyone had a mom, and if they didn’t, they were an orphan. I didn’t want to be an orphan.

This woman had long blonde hair, just like me.

Maybe she was my mother.

Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, and the glass Papa left near my bed wouldn’t do. The water was old, and it probably had dust in it.

Mr. Bunny in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs in my nightgown. Papa always said he had a sixth sense that would tell him when I wasn’t in bed like I was supposed to be, but only a four-year-old would believe that, and I turned five yesterday.

My tummy dipped when shouts drifted down the hall. Papa never raised his voice. He must be very angry. I drifted toward the sounds and stopped in front of the closed library door.

Bang!

My heart jumped. I leapt back, and Mr. Bunny slipped from my fingers.

Then, it went silent.

Red paint leaked from beneath the door, soaking my favorite stuffed animal. He was mine, and now he was ruined. I scooped him up while a sob worked its way up my throat. Warm paint stained my hands and nightgown. It was a mess, and now I’d have to take a bath. Everything was ruined.

The library door opened. Papa said a bad word and blocked the doorway with his body, but I could see his friend asleep on the floor with long blonde hair and red paint all over her.

Closing the door, Papa picked me up, my cheeks wet with tears.

“Mr. Bunny is ruined,” I cried.

“We’ll fix him up.”

I sniffled, tears slowing, and whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

“You have water beside your bed.”

“It has amoebas in it.” I was going through a Bo phase from Signs.

“You don’t know what those are.”

He forced me to take a bath and combed conditioner through my hair. If he didn’t, my curls got too tangled, and they hurt to brush out.

“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”

His gaze softened. “No, angel.”

My eyes grew heavy as he scooped me up in a towel. And the last image I had before sleep took me under, was red paint running down the drain . . .

I slid down the shower wall, numbness pervading every cell within me. I’d like to believe my mind had pushed the memory so deep it’d never see the light of day in an act of self-preservation, but that was a lie. Subconsciously, I always knew something wasn’t right, that things weren’t as sparkly as they seemed, and I smothered the guilt of ignoring the truth by living an altruistic life. Although, with the knowledge in front of my face, I couldn’t live in blissful ignorance anymore.

My papa may be a good father.