These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 12

“The darker the night, the brighter the stars." - Fyodor Dostoevsky

I was surprised to find a pair of pants and a sweater in my closet. The sweater is white, but anything beats the antique dresses I’ve been wearing day after day. I even found a pair of boots. Thank God, not the cowboy variety.

I walk around the stone porch, checking all the doors to see where they lead. I even follow the path to the gate at the end of the property. It ends at the freaking ocean. So far, every side has ended in a body of water. When we went to Seattle, I thought we flew for fun. So, Atticus could show off his money and status. But as it seems, that’s the only way off this… island. How much money does one have to have to own an island?

I shake the thought, climbing back up the winding steps that lead to a side view of the house. This side has chairs and tables on the porch. Except, I’m not alone. Atticus is passed out in a chair. Scotch abandoned, cigar burned in an ashtray. I creep closer. A little spark lighting me up at the prospect he might be dead. He definitely looks it.

I lean over his body, hand waving in front of his face. He doesn’t move and I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. The thought has me holding my breath. Out of fear or joy, I’m not sure. My fingers shake slightly as I go to press them onto his neck to check for a pulse.

An iron grip grabs my wrist, pulling me forward so I fall onto his lap. My eyes widen as I look down into frosty, forest greens. “What are you doing, Bird?”

His sleep voice? Fantastic. Nine out of ten would recommend it under any other circumstance.

“Checking to see if you’re alive?”

He smirks, thick eyebrows rising as he looks up at me. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not forgiven. Now, let me go.” I huff.

He pulls me closer so I’m practically on his lap. “You woke me, entertain me.”

I shove out of his grip, straightening my sweater. I begin to walk away when his voice has me pausing. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“Are you prepared to survive this time?”

I shrug, “Guess we’ll have to see.”

I follow Francis around as he walks from room to room. Huffing everytime he looks over his shoulder and sees me. He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “Miss?”

“Francis.”

The poor man looks as if he’ll have an aneurysm. “Can I help you with anything?”

I shake my head, smiling.

“Then why are you following me?”

“You’re my only friend here. I thought you’d enjoy my company.”

Francis' posture softens along with his eyes. “As touched as I am, miss. You cannot follow me around all day.”

I sigh, “You’re right, I need to go find something to do.”

“Perhaps, the piano.”

I shake my head, turning to walk upstairs, once Francis is out of sight, I drag my finger along the wall, going down a hallway I’ve never been too. There are only two doors, one on each side of the hall. I take the one closest to me, stepping into an office. The scent hits me, and I close my eyes, breathing Atticus in. I shut the door softly behind me. Spinning slowly to take in the one wall lined with books. The other opens into a balcony, the doors a stained glass of black and white roses. The outline is harsh and thick, giving the glass dimension and texture.

The desk is large, lions swirled into the black wood. It’s neat, nothing out of place, not even a pen facing the wrong way in the holder. The chair is leather, a deep brown that should honestly be classified as black since it’s so dark. The rug though. It’s the first pop of color. A light gray with black filigree on it.

I take a step behind the desk, opening the first drawer. I find a single picture taped to the wood. A younger version of Atticus, but his neck is wrapped in a collar, a single lock in the middle. He looks lost, confused and…numb. The picture makes my stomach twist, souring with every second I stare at the picture.

I want to rip it up, destroy the evidence of anyone ever hurting him, but instead, I close the drawer, opening the next to find them full of files. I peek up at the door to make sure I was still alone. I rifle through the files, stopping when I find one on me. I quickly grab it, shoving it in the waistband covering it with my sweater.

I should leave, walk away, but I can’t help but open the top drawer one last time. Glass shatters next to my head, breaking and falling to my bare feet as I gasp, shutting the drawer.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing in here?” My eyes meet Atticus’, and the look he sends my way, makes my legs weak with fear.

I take a step back, feet crunching into broken glass and cutting up the sole of my feet. I wince, tears dripping down my face, but I can’t look away from Atticus as he slowly prowls towards me.

“I believe I told you to stay out of the west wing, did I not?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, I was just…”

“Just what?” he tilts his head, one hand reaching out and stroking my neck.

“I was looking for you,” I lie.

“Why?”

“I was,” I lean back, wincing.

“You’re lying, Little Bird.” He hisses, his hand tightening around my neck. “What did you see?”

“N-nothing.”

“Lying again. I can feel the rise in your pulse under my hand.” He drags my raw feet through the glass, and I cry out, but it’s like he can’t hear me. His eyes are void of anything, a face not a mask but an unsettling blank space of zero emotion.

“Atticus, please. You’re hurting me.” I wheeze out.

“Why should I stop? You didn’t listen when I told you not to come in here, did you? So, tell me why I should stop.”

I don’t get the chance, he tosses me out into the hall, my back smashing into the carpet. I whimper, my gaze blurry from unshed tears. I think I see something flicker in his eyes before he slams the door.

I sniff, wiping my tears and turning to crawl on my knees. I make it almost to my room when gentle hands touch me. It’s not the callused ones I crave, the ones I want.

“Miss, let me help you.” Francis says, his eyes sad and face soft.

He wraps an arm around me, helping me to my swollen, busted feet. I bite my lip to keep from crying every time I have to put pressure on my feet.

Francis helps me into my room, resting me on the seat that overlooks the balcony. “I’ll be back. Hold tight.” He pats my knee.

The door clicks softly behind him and I lean my head back on the chair, closing my eyes. I shouldn’t have gone in there. I shouldn’t have snooped, but maybe this file I have tucked away will help me remember who I am.

I hear a shuffle behind the door. Voice low but not low enough for me not to hear them.

“You need to apologize.”

“Me, apologize? I’m not the one who didn’t follow the rules.”

Francis sighs, “Atticus, go tend to her wounds.”

“I will never bow before another woman.” He hisses. “Never.”