He thrusts until my mouth is full and my throat constricts around him. Hot tears flood my eyes. He doesn’t relent until I begin to choke, gasping and begging for mercy by shoving his unyielding thighs.
When he pulls out, only a thread of saliva connects us. It droops and eventually breaks, swinging back onto my chin.
“Have I come?” he asks. “Don’t shut your mouth yet.”
“Fuck you, Guy,” I cry through my burning throat.
He freezes instantly. There’s an eerily deafening silence as his fingers pull so tightly on my hair that I squeal. “What did you say?” I stare at him in awe. His body seems to grow bigger as he crouches over me. “What the fuck did you say?”
I flinch, and a noticeable tremble laces my whispered response. “I know you’re Guy Fowler.”
He shoves me away so I fall onto my outstretched arms. Immediately, I ball into the fetal position, flinching with each of his heavy, retreating footsteps. My quivering is uncontrollable while my mind scrambles to catch up. When it does, the thoughts come as easily as the tears: violated, used, disgusting. I hate this place, my situation, but most of all, I hate Guy Fowler. My fingers bury in my hair.
“You’ve always been such a good fucking girl, Cataline.”
It’s true; I’ve spent my life trying to do the right thing, see the positive in people, find light in the darkness. This is where it’s led me. Now that I know I’m right to be afraid, all I want to know is how far this will go. I have to find out whether I’ll ever be free again, or if it’s my fate to die here in this breathtakingly beautiful mansion.
8
The light slam of the door rouses me. Footsteps vibrate in my ear because I’m still on the floor, curled tightly into myself. I’ve moved to the side of the bed furthest from the room’s entrance, mostly underneath it.
I’m my seven-year-old self again, hidden under a new bed in a new home. Fear manifested as silent sobbing while my small hands clung to a bedpost, hoping, impossibly, my dead parents could still come for me.
“Come out from there, Cataline,” says a man’s voice. He waits, unmoving, until I go to him. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m afraid.”
“You’re braver than that, aren’t you?”
“I miss them.”
I’m lifted by my armpits and put under the covers. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is, “You’ll be happy here. I promise.”
Despite the obscure country night, despite the crystal-sparkle of my tears, I’d known it wasn’t my foster father. When a new, valiant hero surfaced in New Rhone years later, my scalp tingled remembering my first night at the Andersons’.
As the steps draw nearer, my mind spins a silent prayer, my ears heat with a sudden rush of blood. I cease breathing, blinking, and all other basic functions as I attempt invisibility.
“Oh, dear. Cataline?”
My relief is a loud exhale, but my throat protests as words shred from my mouth. “I’m over here.”
Norman comes around the bed and heaves a sigh. “Thank goodness. For a moment, I thought you were gone, but, of course, where would you go? Did you sleep there?”
I ease my stiff back from the floor to sit up. “I slept. That’s all that matters.”
The wrinkles that stripe his forehead deepen. “I wasn’t aware you weren’t sleeping well. I’ll bring you calming tea in the evenings going forward,” he decides. “Perhaps that will help.”
“Help? If you want to help, open the front door. That’s it.” I get to my hands and knees and crawl to Norman’s feet. “I won’t go to the police,” I say, looking up at him. “You don’t even have to tell me where I am or how to get home.” My voice cracks as I whisper, “Just open the door.”
He stares down, impervious to my groveling. “Why, Cataline? Look at all you have here. You have nothing like this at home, not even a family.” His harsh words are delivered gently, and instead of enraging me, they weigh down my already-heavy grief.
“I do,” I say emphatically, and my hands go to his legs, fisting the fine fabric of his pants. “I have a family who loves me, and I love them. They’ll miss me so much, Norman. I’m sure they’ve reported me missing. My mother will be devastated without me.”
I’m forced to release his trousers when he drops into a squat. He rubs my shoulder with papery fingers. “None of that is true.”
“Yes, it is,” I say. I continue to list the members of an imaginary family as he peers at me, his head angled while he listens. I don’t know where the lie comes from, but I tell him the names and locations of siblings, cousins, grandparents. He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know the truth about me or where I come from; he couldn’t possibly.
His response comes moments after my plea finally ends, and it sends a chill down my spine. “You have a foster family in Fenndale and a roommate called Frida. Isn’t that true?”
I blink, too dumbfounded to form an answer.
He looks at the floor. “Come. It’s time for breakfast.”
“How do you know about Frida?”
“You must be hungry.”
My back teeth grind together from his bullshit. Though I want to rail against him, I can’t seem to raise my voice above a whisper when I say, “Do you know what he did to me last night?”
The coward refuses to look at me, but at least he doesn’t pretend not to hear me. He glances at the door and subtly at the nearest corner of the room. “My advice is not to rile him. He only came to your room to stop your tantrum, not to torment you. If you behave and stay out of his way, I’ll do my best to ensure he stays out of yours.”
“If I cooperate, I won’t have to see him again?”
He furrows his brow at the floor as though the question requires deep thought. “Only he knows the answer to that. But I believe it’s your best option.”
Learning that Norman knows more about me than I thought causes me to miss his invitation downstairs. When I’m allowed out of the room, my chest seems to expand more easily with each breath. I insist on helping clear the table after breakfast. Chef Michael’s cheerfulness is contagious as we wash dishes, even if our conversation is stunted.
Norman instructs me on how to use the cinema, though I’m certain it would’ve taken me less time to figure it out on my own. There’s an entire library of movies to select from, but I end up watching animated children’s classics all afternoon to dull the memory of last night. A tuna sandwich and Coke are delivered to me between features, followed by popcorn at my request.
It’s early evening when the third movie ends, and my mind feels restless. I’m learning the best cure for that is the library. I eject the film and replace it where I found it. Upon studying the shelf, I notice it doesn’t matter where I put it; the movies are in no particular order. I decide that one day I’ll devote time to organizing them. I leave the cinema pondering if I should arrange them according to title or genre when Norman stops me.
“We have an assignment from the Master of the House.”
I bite my thumbnail absentmindedly. “Okay.”
“He requires that you call your family and Frida to assure them you’re okay.”
At the mention of her name, my hand touches my heart. “No. Frida has nothing to do with this.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no getting out of it.”
“It’s been too long. She’ll have called the cops by now.”
“Indeed she has. Please, follow me.” He turns his back and walks to a closed door on the ground floor. My heartbeat skips as he unlocks it, my mind conjuring up the possibilities of what’s hidden in this mansion. When I step inside, I’m disappointed by the blandness of a simple study that’s almost identical to the one I broke into. He walks to a desk that holds a large, clunky, black phone and gestures for me to follow. I nearly salivate when he hands me the receiver.