House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

6. SIX

SIX

ACE

T he walk home was a complete blur, just a blank void except for the rhythmic beat of my heart and the squelching of my shoes as they sank into the mud. Each step felt heavier than the last as if the earth itself was drawing me deeper, trying to swallow me up. I didn't dare look back. When I finally had the house in my sights, all I could do was stand momentarily in front of the large door. My hand rose, hovering over the handle that levered and rattled beneath my fingers as I quivered. I didn't know what waited on the other side. My father's mood was like a wrecking ball, but I needed to tell him about Carlo. We had to call for help, we had to get the police involved.

The door opened before I had quite decided whether to knock or enter. He stood in the doorway, filling it like a shadow that had come to life. His shirt, once white, was now befouled, clinging to his frame like the ghost of what he had once been.

The smell reached me before his voice did. Feral, a mix of sweat and alcohol, it was as if something was decaying. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, floating somewhere between rage and some kind of narcotics-like fix that kept him tethered to this half-life. In his right hand, which hung low by his side, was the leather belt. It swayed just a little and didn't seem to be swaying at all, yet its view depressed my stomach. The urge to run, to turn and flee back through the clearing, back to the circus, back to the clowns who suddenly seemed so much less perilous than my own home, seized me.

Before I could move, his hand shot out and there it was, tightening around my arm like a vice.

He yanked me inside and threw me onto the floor without even acknowledging I was more than a rag doll. I squirmed backward, trying to crawl away, and the coarse-grained wood was like sandpaper against my skin. But he followed me, his heavy boots clomping with every step, the floorboards groaning with each move he made. The belt slapped against his calloused palm in a sickening rhythm as he loomed over me.

My back went against the wall, trapping me.

He smiled, but it wasn't a smile. It was twisted, and cruel. The belt smacked harder against his hand warning.

"Do you know what time it is?" His voice was low, threatening. Then louder, "Do you?!

My voice was but a whisper. "Carlo's missing," I managed to say, my voice catching in my throat. "We have to call someone, we have to—" Crouching, his knee slammed into the floor as he leaned in close, so close I could smell the decay on his breath.

"No one's gonna help you," he hissed; his laugh sharp, cold. "No one!"

I flinched as his hand shot out, clenching into my jaw, and forcing me back against the wall. His fist followed, connecting to my face with enough force to send my head snapping to one side, vision swimming in a sudden blur of pain.

One, two, three... I counted as if somehow the numbers could take me out of this terrible here, take me anywhere else.

But the hits just continued his fists, the belt, whatever that would be used to beat the life out of me. All I could hear was the thud of leather against my skin, the sharp crack of bone and flesh, but all seemed so far away, like it happened to another person.

I closed my eyes and wished to be elsewhere, wishing for a dream that would swallow me whole.I drifted far away, slipping beneath some cold dark ocean. The water was heavy and thick; it pulled me lower, weight growing upon me. My white dress floated around me, my hair swirling in slow motion as the sea consumed me. And then as I reached the bottom, I saw her.

She was there, her pale face soft, her hazel eyes brimming with the love I have ached for all these years. She reached out her arms, embracing me close, rocking me as we lay together on the ocean floor. It was so peaceful. For a minute, I just didn't want to go. If this was it, I was ready.

But then she let go. A sad smile, though something in those eyes-something told me that was not it. I was not done yet. I was not ready.

I fought to the surface, lungs burning with the struggle of trying to breathe. My whole body ached, screaming, but I didn't stop. That had me clawing back up toward the light, gasping for air.

I came to, sprawled out on the floor, my cheek against the cold wood. It was dark; the only sound was the snoring of my father from down in the living room. He had fallen asleep, his rage tired out for the night. But the pain was still there, sharp and searing, cutting through every bit of me.

I tried to move, but my body would not budge. My muscles screamed in protest, my skin bruised and raw. I pushed with the little energy I had left; my arms were trembling and finally, after a long time, I managed to drag myself on the floor inch by inch. Silent tears slid down my cheeks; my body was too broken even to sob loudly. I thought of Mom again, her face, her arms holding me tight at the bottom of that ocean. I missed her so much, it hurt more than the blows. "For you," I whispered low and forced myself to move another inch. "For you."

She needed me to fight back. She needed for me to survive, not give up.Even when I had no longer the strength to give up, I crawled on.

My body dragged itself across the cold floor; the touch of every scrape of my elbows against the surface burned like fire. Inch by inch, I pushed my body forward like the hall was an endless tunnel. Gasping for air, I reached my room. My fingers shaking, I grasped for the doorframe and dragged myself upright, holding on to the wood as though it was the only thing holding me in this world. After one step, I sent the door slamming shut behind me, and my hand scrabbled for a lock until I heard the faint click.

And then I collapsed.

I hit the floor hard, the white carpet coarse against my skin as I rolled over, staring blankly at the ceiling. My body hurt, all my muscles shrieking in protest, but none of it mattered against the dull ache inside. I wanted something—anything—to make it stop so badly, but the room was silent, uncaring.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a sharp vibration that seemed to echo through the room. I twisted my body, groaning, reaching for it, but by the time my fingers brushed the screen, the buzzing had stopped. Christian. His name was still there on the display for a second or two before it flickered off and was replaced by a message.

"Why is Carlo at the House of Clowns with Rocco?"

The words weren't even digested before the phone rang again. My hand shaking, I swiped to answer; the coolness of the screen beneath my fingers was a stark contrast to the burned wounds on my skin. Christian's voice exploded through the speaker—in anger and panic.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he yelled, and it was like a sharp blade cutting through the fog in my brain. "You left him there? In that hole with those freaks?"

"Hi," I mumbled, the word barely escaping my lips. I could feel the weight of his frustration, but he had no idea what was happening. He was too far away to know that I lay broken on the floor, locked in my bedroom after my father had beaten me.

He didn't know I'd sat and watched as Carlo got dragged away by strangers while I was detained by clowns, trying to get to him. He knew nothing. Nobody knew anything.

"Are you fucking high?" Christian's voice was raised again, laced with disdain. "This is a new low, even for you."

"Stop," I whimpered, and then the sting of tears hit my eyes again, but he wasn't done.

"It's not enough that you've slept with half my friends. You're now getting high and misplacing our brother?" His voice finally cracked and frustration boiled over. "Jesus, Chiara, pull yourself together."

Hot streams of tears escaped down my cheeks, warming the cold numbness around my face. I sniffed, just trying to keep it together. "Can someone just bring him home?"

Christian laughed cynically, all incredulous. "Oh yeah, sure, I'll ask a bunch of clowns to do that—NO!" His voice caught on a hitch, the anger heavy and alive. "You go get him."

"Look," I choked, "I'm—I'm pretty beaten up right now." My voice came out strained, hardly above a whisper. "I really can't… please…"

There'd been a moment of silence between us, heavy and tense. Then he relented with a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But this is the last fucking time."

"Thank you," I breathed, my voice cracking with exhaustion. There was just dead air and the nothingness that surrounded me. I lay there; it was an eerily quiet room, with only the hum of the air conditioner. It was finally silent, and that was all I wanted. But it wasn't the kind of help I needed. My big brother, Christian—the one who was supposed to be looking out for me—saw only what he wanted to see. He judged me and thought I was nothing but a screw-up, incapable of thinking about anyone but myself.

But then he forgot. He forgot how I played hooky from school to make sure there was food on the table when they came home. How I held it all together while everything else fell apart. But no one saw that. No one wanted to.