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When I enter the servants’ corridor, I veer left instead of the usual right. With Mrs. Whitten and Ark’s mother deep in conversation at my right, there’s no way I can confront either of them in my current headspace. I’m so mad that I’d be tempted to physically assault her as she did me.
The further I walk, the angrier I become. This goes against everything I believe in. The railroading, the bullying. I swore when Tillie was born that I would never place myself in a predicament like that again, yet here I am, nursing a stinging cheek and a broken heart from people I didn’t allow in.
I’m so mad at my cowardice it takes me longer than I care to admit to realize which door I’ve stopped next to.
I’m outside Ark’s third-floor office.
Although I shouldn’t, I knock instead of walking away.
I signed the severance papers as requested. That should reward me some morsel of respect.
“Not now!” growls a voice from inside—a voice full of pain and torment.
“Ark, it’s me.” I hate how weak my voice sounds when I say, “It’s M-Mara,” but your confidence can’t be smashed to smithereens and not have it affect your vocal cords.
There’s a cuss closely followed by a thump.
“Are you okay?”
Now I understand why Ark loathes silence.
It hurts the same as fists when issued by certain people.
I press my hand to the door to steady my legs as well as I endeavor to steady my words. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
My teeth grit when he snaps at me in the same tone he used the night we met. “Go home, Mara.”
His words are so slurred that I’m more fretful than upset.
The last time I confronted a drunk man, I found out my father isn’t the God-fearing man he makes out he is to the parishioners of his church.
He is the devil in sheep’s clothing.
After another quick breath to ensure fear doesn’t jangle my vocal cords, I say, “I want to make sure you’re okay. Riley called me. She’s worried about you.”
I hear another cuss before a crash and a scrape like the thick wooden legs of his bed being bumped firm enough to move them.
“Ark?” I shout when another bang sounds through the door. This one is louder than the fist he threw into the tiles in my bathroom. It’s defeated and possibly life-altering. “Please let me in.”
Silence.
More painful silence.
That is the only reply I get.
No longer caring about the consequences of my actions or his right of privacy, I dig through my purse for the master keys for his apartment.
I fumble for the key to Ark’s bedroom when another bang sounds before it is closely followed by a tyrant of hateful words. “Stupid fucking lies. Stupid fucking people. Stupid fuckinghim!”
Something smashing against a wall booms out of his bedroom during his last sentence.
In a flurry, I find the right key, push it into the lock, and then throw open the servants’ entrance door.
The strong scent of alcohol hits me first.
It is closely followed by an overpowering floral perfume. It smells too dated to belong to anyone under the age of sixty, and it seems to be coming from the air vents.
I sense Ark’s presence half a second before he scares the living daylights out of me. “I told you to go home.”