Page 54

It's cold enough that it momentarily takes my breath away, but it doesn't really matter. The shock to my system is a nice break from the pain.

I sit on the bench, lathering up my loofa, and begin washing my body, tensing when I hear footsteps in the bathroom stopping just outside the curtain.

"Are you okay?" Tate asks.

I swallow a lump in my throat before answering. "Yeah."

"Do you need any help?"

"No."

"Okay. You have three minutes, Noah. I put some clothes on the sink for you."

He waits a beat, and when I don't answer, I hear his boots against the tile, heading back to the bedroom. Assuming I only have two minutes to spare, I finish scrubbing my body and then hurriedly wash my hair.

I turn off the water, step onto the rug, grab a towel, and sit on the toilet lid before drying myself off. There's a pair of black underwear on the counter that hasn't been destroyed, so I slip those on. The jeans have a few cuts in them, but they aren't unwearable, so I put those on, too, before pulling on a dark green sweatshirt.

No bra, though. I'm not sure if it's because there wasn't anything salvageable or if it's for lack of trying—not that it matters. I wrap a towel around my hair and step out of the bathroom. Tate sits at my vanity while Silas stretches out across my bed with a cleaver in one hand and a knife sharpener in the other.

Not ominous at all.

Tate stands, gesturing toward the bench seat. "Sit."

I sit in front of the mirror, looking not at my own reflection, but at Silas and the knife.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says, filing the blade. "Found what I was looking for."

"What do you mean?"

I'm so distracted by Silas—by the motion, by the sound of the cleaver running through the sharpener—that I don't even notice Tate behind me, removing the towel from my head and using it to wring out my hair.

"Do you feel better?" he asks.

"Um, a little. I guess."

He grabs a hairbrush from the vanity and begins running it through my hair. And it feels…really fucking nice. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forgetting again what we're doing here—that hours ago, I left a house full of dead bodies, and now one of the killers is brushing my hair and the other is behind me, reclining on my bed while sharpening a knife.

I missed them. And if I can pretend none of that other stuff is real, I don't even notice that hole in my chest.

Tate sets the brush down in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders, rubbing the sore muscles.

"Remember what I told you about what we were going to do for you?" he asks.

In the mirror, I watch Silas stand, crossing the room until he's behind me, too.

"You didn't tell me," I say. "You just said you were going to help me understand you."

"We're going to help you get your own revenge. Which of these rooms does your stepdad sleep in?"

"Um, their room is downstairs, but I don't—" I start.

"Don't worry; I'll find it," Silas says. "Hold this." He passes Tate the cleaver knife and leaves the room.

"Silas!" I shout. "Silas, stop! I don't want to!"

He turns the corner, making his way down the staircase without looking back at me. I stumble a little when I start down the stairs after him, and Tate appears at my side.

"There's just no talking to him when he's like this," he says, smiling.