Page 30

Chapter thirty

Levana

“Patrick!” I scream, voice cracking so hard it hurts. “Patrick, please! Please let me out!”

The only answer is the faint creak of floorboards from downstairs.

I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming, but I know he’s not coming back.

“Oh, fuck.”

My lungs are too full, and still not full enough. Bile rises thick and bitter, clinging to the back of my tight throat, to the surface of my tongue.

I don’t even realise I’ve reached the corner of the room until my spine hits the wall. I drop down, tucking my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms tight around them, and bury my face in the space between, squeezing my eyes shut like I can block it all out.

Breathe. Just breathe.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

I try to ground myself. Try to focus on the sound of my breath, the dull, relentless thud of my pulse in my ears.

In. Out. In. Out.

Like that’s going to help.

I lift my head, and my eyes meet that gold wedding band again, glinting faintly in the light.

No. Don’t look. Don’t look.

But my eyes won’t listen.

My body betrays me.

And slowly, unwillingly, my gaze drags upward.

A year. Just over a year? Maybe two?

The sweater she’s wearing is too big, swallowing her frame. The cuffs hang limp past her wrists, stretched out and worn thin. It’s pilled at the elbows, like it’s been clinging to her for too long.

Stop looking. Stop right now.

Dark, heavy waves of hair spill over her shoulder, just like in the photo Patrick showed me on his phone.

The air’s so fucking thick and stale, clinging to my skin like cold, unbrushed breath.

My gaze drags itself higher, up to her face.

Her skin is pale. But not soft, not peaceful. It’s grey, dry and tight, stretched like old paper over sharp cheekbones. Her lips are drawn and cracked, the edges curled back just enough to bare her teeth—not in a smile, but something closer to a grimace. They’re dry too, tinged blue at the corners.

The skin around her eye sockets is sunken, hollowed, like it’s been pulled inwards.

But her lids are closed.

Thank god, they’re closed.

Mara.

Mara Dalton.

I stare at her for a long moment, just taking her in.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask her lifeless body on a whisper.

A thousand spiders skitter over my skin from fear.

I’m not scared of her . I know death, work with it every day. I’ve seen bodies in worse shape than this—bloated, blackened, twisted.

But I am scared of whatever the hell’s going on here.

My legs are weak, and my whole body feels wrung out, but I force myself to stand and properly take in my surroundings.

It’s a nursery.

The walls are painted a sweet, soft yellow like baby chicks, and there are toys scattered across the floor—tiny plastic cars, wooden blocks, a stuffed bear slumped in the corner with one ear barely hanging on.

Mara’s sat in one of those nursing chairs, the kind that rocks gently, with padded arms and a wide seat. She’s slumped back against it, head tilted just enough to one side to make her look like she’s resting. Peaceful, almost. Like she’s just worn out from chasing a toddler around and finally let herself take a break.

There’s a pile of snacks stacked up high next to her. Not a day’s worth, not even a week’s. It’s months. Bags of chips, chocolate, candy—all sealed, untouched. Bowls sit nearby too, but whatever was in them is long gone now, collapsed into dry, brittle husks. And there are water bottles. So many water bottles. Well over four dozen, just lined up in neat rows.

What the hell’s going on?

My gaze drifts over more of the room.

One wall’s completely covered in pictures, not even a single patch of that soft yellow poking out.

Patrick, Mara, and Alexander’s faces stare back at me.

Alexander’s everywhere.

First as a newborn, pink and fragile, cradled in Mara’s arms while Patrick beams beside her in a hospital gown. Then older, sitting on Patrick’s shoulders at what looks like a park, showing off a gummy smile. And there’s one at a preschool graduation—tiny cap askew, eyes bright, holding a paper diploma with crayon scribbles.

Snapshot after snapshot. Three whole lives laid out in frames.

I spot a separate cluster of photos.

Just Patrick and Mara.

Wedding photos.

They look young. They must have been what… twenty-one? Twenty-two? Barely more than kids.

Patrick’s grinning in every shot—this wide, stupid smile that makes him look like he’s still figuring out how to wear it. His suit’s a little too big, the sleeves hanging just past his wrists, like he’s borrowed it from someone older. His hair’s much longer and messier. He doesn’t look calm or collected. He looks like a guy who can’t quite believe his luck.

And Mara…

She’s standing beside him in this simple white dress—no frills, no lace, just smooth fabric that clings to her waist and flares out at the bottom. Her hair’s pinned back, a few dark curls slipping loose to frame her face. She’s laughing in one photo, her head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the corners. Patrick’s arm is wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her close, like he’s holding on for dear life.

There’s another photo in the far corner. They’re by the lake. The lake where we slow danced. The lake where I wanted to kiss him. Patrick’s suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his tie loose and crooked. Mara’s tucked against his side, head resting on his shoulder. They’re both smiling. Fuck, they look so in love.

My eyes blur with building tears. I blink hard, trying to push them back. But they spill over anyway. My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the place where just an hour ago, I learned there’s something growing.

His baby.

What the fuck is going on?

I step back across the room, breath stuttering out in sharp bursts, head spinning, pulse pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

A sharp pain blooms through my hip and I gasp, nearly losing my footing.

I turn to see what I’ve just backed into.

A crib.

It’s old—pale wood, scuffed and chipped lightly along the bars. The edges of the mattress are bare, slightly tinged with age. And resting on it…

Oh, god…

Two tiny skeletons.

So small. No bigger than newborns.

They’re curled up on their sides, limbs tangled together so they’re huddled close.

Their miniature ribs are delicate as birdcages, skulls round and smooth, and tiny diapers cling to their heartbreakingly perfect bones.

But despite the decay and loss, they look cared for. It’s in the way the fresh blanket beneath them is smooth, tucked in around their shapes, in the way that dust clearly hasn’t touched them.

Who are they?

The question slices through my brain, and everything inside me lurches. My stomach roils, my mouth floods with saliva, and I have to clamp my lips shut to stop myself from vomiting right there on the floor.

This can’t be real. It can’t be what it looks like.

But the thought rises anyway—fast and hot and sickening.

He did this.

He put these babies in here. He put his wife in here.

He’s a murderer.

The realisation slams into me like a punch.

He’s a fucking murderer.

I stagger again, one hand still gripping my stomach, the other bracing against the wall. My mind’s spinning, tumbling over itself as I stare at those tiny, fragile bones.

Elliot was right.

He’s fucking deranged.

Oh. Holy. Shit.

He did do that to Elliot, didn’t he? How did he do it? Did he drug him? Did he spike his coffee? How did he get him up there?

Is this what he wanted all along? To set Elliot up like some sadistic pervert, so he could bring me here, and murder me too?

Christ.

I’m the worst friend in the world.

I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known. Elliot had been there for me through everything. Every breakdown, every panic attack, everything with my mom, he was always there. And I still let Patrick turn me against him.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, voice shaky and thin. “Oh my god, I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

My fist slams against my thigh, hard enough to sting, hard enough to feel real.

I need to snap out of this. I can’t fall apart now.

I force oxygen into my lungs and hold it until my ribs ache.

Then I let it out. Again. And again.

Until the black spots behind my eyes start to fade.

I need to come up with a plan, because I’m not ending up like that—curled up in a crib or slumped in some chair with my skin stretched tight and dry, waiting for him to sit beside me and pretend I’m still here.

He was talking to her. Having a damn conversation with her right in front of my eyes. Like she was sitting there, alive and breathing, nodding along to whatever twisted fantasy he was spinning in his head.

Is this why he’s up here so often during the day? So he can talk to the mummified corpse of his damn wife whilst his girlfriend sits downstairs, tucked up on their couch?

None of this makes a lick of sense.

But wait…

A few puzzle pieces try their best to click together through the thick fog that’s settling between the cracks in my brain.

What if he’s like Mom?

She talks to Dad all the time. Alright, she isn’t speaking to his corpse, and she definitely didn’t murder him, but she’s always murmuring softly to the empty chair in the living room, smiling like he’s still there, or waiting around like he’s just stepped out of the room and will be back any minute.

It can’t be that though. He’s way too young. Too lucid. Too composed.

I mean, I know it can happen.

But this doesn’t seem like memories slipping through the cracks, it strikes me as something more dangerous, something colder and more volatile.

The way he’s been doing all of this…

Taking my phone away from me, turning me against my own best friend with a handful of carefully twisted words and some perverted kind of set-up to sever the trust between us.

He’s been pulling strings, tightening them around my neck one loop at a time—and I didn’t even see it.

He might not be like Mom, but maybe I should treat him like her?

Soft voice, careful steps, no sudden moves.

Like walking on a tightrope made of broken glass and smiling through the blood.

Okay.

That’s exactly what I’ll do.

I can’t panic. I can’t scream. I can’t run again.

Because what if he turns on me? What if he snaps, and hurts me? I don’t really care for the parasite in my belly, but I at least want to live for myself.

I need to be smart, clever, convincing.

I need him to believe I’m okay with this, and that everything’s going to be just fine.