Page 45

Chapter forty-five

Patrick

Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythm is off. The floorboards are too loud. Too sharp. They’re trying to cut into my thinking.

Mara’s still laughing.

Locked door.

Three inches of wood.

Two screws through the hinges.

I can still hear her.

“You think she’s yours?” she whispers from the other side. “She’s planning her escape.”

I press my hand to the wall, fingers splayed. My heart kicks harder.

“No. No, she’s not.”

She loves me.

She loves me.

She loves me.

The floor creaks again. Different direction this time. I freeze.

Soft murmurs from Alexander’s room.

Levana’s voice.

I tilt my head toward the door. I can hear her whispering, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s all hushed syllables broken into scattered fragments.

“Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly,” I whisper.

I repeat it.

Faster this time.

“Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly.”

The names anchor me.

They keep the static out.

They keep Mara from clawing her way through the door.

My family. My girls. My sons.

My wife.

“Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly.”

Mara’s laugh pierces through the wood like a drill.

“You think that’ll save you?” she hisses.

My fingers curl into a fist.

Don’t listen. Don’t listen.

Every window is blocked.

Every door is locked and barred.

Phones—gone.

Outside world—gone.

No one takes her.

No one finds us.

I’ve made it perfect.

Perfect for her.

For the babies.

For Alexander.

For our family.

“Patrick!” Levana’s voice comes through the door with a bang. “I need to use the bathroom!”

I look down the hallway, then up toward the ceiling, scanning for shadows, for cracks, for anything out of place. But the house is still sealed. No lights from outside. No voices. No threats.

Just us.

I step to the door and unlock it with a soft click.

When it opens, she’s standing there in one of my sweaters, hair messy around her face, skin pale. The shadows under her eyes are deepening by the day— darkening into tired, purple bruises, pressed into her skin like fingerprints.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Come on, baby.”

I touch her back lightly and guide her down the hall.“Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

She doesn’t speak. Just nods.

And I stay right outside the semi-open door.

Because this is what good husbands do.

They protect.

They stay close.

They don’t let anything slip through the cracks.

The bathroom door creaks open.

She steps out slowly, blinking against the dim hallway light like it stings. Her arms are curled around her belly, holding the weight of our babies.

“Patrick,” she says softly, her voice thick with sleep and strain. “Please can I sleep in our bed tonight?”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m so tired, and my body aches. The babies are getting big and—I feel like shit. I can’t keep sleeping on Alexander’s floor. I just… I can’t.”

“That’s where you’re safest,” I say, as gently as I can. “You’re both in there, and I can keep watch from the hallway. You know I can’t leave him alone either.”

Her face cracks and her throat bobs.

“This has crossed a line,” she says, steadying herself. “No one’s coming for us. You’ve locked me in here, boarded the windows, thrown out the phones. Patrick, you can’t keep me like this. You can’t.”

For a second, I just stare at her.

And then something in my chest rears its ugly head.

“Don’t say that. You think this is for fun?” My voice rises with every word. “I’m doing everything to keep you safe! Everything, Levana!”

She takes a step back, and then another, until her back hits the wall, eyes wide with shock.

I follow.

“You think I want to live like this?” I hiss, hands shaking with rage. “You think I wanted to barricade our fucking life shut like a coffin? No. I had to. Because you won’t stay otherwise.”

She’s not crying.

Hasn’t cried in days, actually.

That has to mean something good.

She’s adjusting. Accepting.

I take a breath and nod, softening my tone. “Come on. Let’s get you lying down again. You need the rest.”

She doesn’t argue, just lets me hold her shoulders and usher her back down the hallway.

“Do you… want to say hi to Alex?” she asks when we reach the bedroom door. “I think he’d appreciate seeing his daddy for a while.”

The words catch me in the centre of the chest. I’ve missed him. But I have to be quick. Just in case.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

I look toward the bed, where Alexander lies, and I step closer, taking in the curve of his jaw, the lashes resting against his cheeks.

“I missed you, buddy,” I tell him as I kneel next to the bed.

I whisper to him. Tell him about the babies. About the snow. About the song I heard on the radio a few weeks ago that I think he’d like.

But something’s off. My eyes flick to the door again. Just in case.

When I look back at Alexander, I almost vomit.

I stare harder, making sure I’m definitely seeing what I think I’m seeing.

Two of his fingers are gone.

“What the fuck?” I breathe.

Levana shifts on the floor. “What? What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer right away, I’m too focused on the empty spaces where his fingers should be.

No. No, no, no.

“What is it, Patrick?” Levana asks again, more urgent this time.

I don’t even turn to look at her. “His fucking fingers are gone, Levana!”

“What? How—how?”

“I don’t know!” I shout, jerking back from him. “I don’t fucking know!”

My boy.

My baby boy.

“Oh no, no, no…”

I start pacing beside the bed, dragging both hands through my hair, tugging at the roots.

I can stop this from happening if I just think hard enough. Fast enough.

“Why the fuck did this happen, Levana? Answer me!” I yell, turning on her.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammers, voice thin. “I didn’t notice, I swear, Patrick—”

“He’s decaying,” I spit. “Decaying. Because we’re not fixing him properly. Because we’re waiting too long—because—fuck, fuck, fuck— his organs. We can’t wait can we? Fuck. We need them now.”

My lungs seize.

The room sways.

The air warps around me like plastic over a flame.

“Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly,” I chant under my breath, rocking on the balls of my feet. “Patrick, Levana, Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly.”

“We need to get to the funeral home,” she says gently, her voice closer now. “Before he gets any worse, Patrick. We don’t know how quickly this might happen.”

“No,” I snap. “No, no, we can’t. What if someone sees you? What if they take you, and I lose you, and then I die, and Alexander will be gone for good, and everything disappears—”

“Okay. Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “What if… what if we disguise me?”

I blink. “What?”

“Do you have Mara’s clothes?” she asks quietly.

My stomach clenches. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Okay.” She nods, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Then dress me in her clothes. Do you have any hats? I’ll put my hair under one. Maybe some of her makeup too—if you have any of that.”

“You think that’ll work?”

“I think… if we’re smart—really smart—it’s our only shot,” she says. “I can’t fix him without the right organs, Patrick. And if we wait any longer…”

Her eyes slide to Alexander’s hand.

To the fingers that aren’t there anymore.

Hot bile rises up my throat, and my jaw clenches so tight my teeth ache.

No.

Absolutely not.

“We can’t go,” I snap, stepping back from her. “We can’t fucking go. You think no one will see you? You think they won’t recognise you? You’re not invis—“

“Patrick!” Her voice cuts through mine like a blade. “Think of your damn son!”

Silence slams down over the room like a dropped curtain, and my muscles lock up.

“Look at him,” she says, breathing hard. “He’s falling apart. And you’re still thinking about how to keep me locked up instead of how to save him. I know you’re scared. But if we don’t do something now, we’re going to lose him. For good.”

Every word hits like a hammer to my bones.

I stare down at Alexander’s hand.

Fine.

I grab her wrist and yank her toward the hallway. “Come on.”

We reach the bedroom, and I’m already scanning every surface, flinging open drawers, yanking the closet door wide.

“Where is it—where is it—fuck—where—”

I toss a box of old blankets aside, rifle through a crate of fabric scraps, then finally find her suitcase.

I flip the latches.

There they are.

Mara’s things. Folded neatly, exactly how she left them.

The rest are in the attic, but I kept these in here.

A long grey wool coat. A pair of worn jeans. A soft turtleneck sweater, the pale pink one she always said made her feel ‘like a cupcake.’ A knit hat. A scarf. Makeup bag, still zipped.

I turn and shove the pile into Levana’s arms.

“Put these on,” I mutter, pacing again, scanning the room from carpet to ceiling. “They can’t see you. No one can see you.”

She doesn’t argue. Just takes the clothes and nods.

I’m shaking so fucking hard.

I whisper the seven names under my breath again, over and over like a damn prayer.

When I finally look up, she’s completely dressed in Mara’s old things.

The grey coat, the scarf tucked tight beneath her chin, the beanie pulled low. Her hair’s hidden. Her shape’s different. Her scent is wrong.

It’s still her. But this isn’t right. Something’s not right.

What if we leave and the whole house collapses without us?

What if something happens to him?

“We have to take Alexander too,” I say.

Levana’s brow furrows. “Patrick, is that a good idea?”

“What if he turns to ash while we’re gone?” I snap, heart beating out of my throat. “What if his body gives out completely and we’re not here and he’s gone forever? I’m not taking that risk. You can fix him at the funeral home.”

She doesn’t answer.

I step forward and grip her arm, tight. “You stay with me. Right here.”

She nods slowly, placing her hand over mine like she’s steadying me.

I head back to Alex’s room and pick him up, cradling him in my arms.

“Come on, buddy,” I mutter as I shift his weight.

We reach the door, and I gesture toward the hammer on the floor.

“Pry it off,” I tell Levana.

“Patrick, my hands—”

“Pry it off!”

She doesn’t speak, just lifts the hammer with bloodless knuckles and turns toward the boards.

Her first hit is weak.

Her second is stronger.

Wood groans, nails screaming in protest.

She flinches with every creak, but keeps going.

One board splinters under her grip, and she jerks her hand back, watching for a second as blood blooms across her palm.

Her breathing becomes ragged, shoulders trembling, bump straining under the coat.

Another nail gives way. The board shifts. She braces one foot against the frame and yanks hard.

“Hurry,” I bark.

Blood smears across the wood grain as she pries it loose, hands slick, arms shaking.

The whole time, I whisper. “Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly.”

She gets the last board off. The door groans open. Cold air floods in, sharp and biting—like the world’s been waiting to swallow us whole.

“You stay right next to me,” I command. “Do not move away from me. Not for a second.”

Her whole body’s quivering, but she nods.

I kiss Alexander’s cold, dry cheek as I carry him to the car. “It’s okay. It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.”

I lay him gently across the back seat and tuck a blanket around him.

Levana hovers nearby, arms around her belly, blood drying on her fingers. Her voice is so quiet I barely hear it over the wind. “Patrick… I don’t think you should drive.”

“I’m fine.” I snap, straightening up. “I’m upset and I’m worried, but that doesn’t change how I drive. Just get in the damn car, Levana.”

She does.

The second the doors close, the silence is loud.

I grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding me in place, and peel down the icy driveway.

We’re going to fix him.

She’s going to fix him.

We’re going to be a family.

Everything’s going to be okay.

The sun’s starting to set, bleeding orange and gold across the snow-slicked trees. The heater hums low, and soft, sleepy jazz plays through the stereo.

Levana sits beside me, wrapped in Mara’s coat, scarf pulled high around her jaw. Dried, bloodied hands lying in her lap.

She hasn’t looked at me in over an hour.

Every mile feels worse. It’s like there’s wire around my ribs and it’s pulling tighter with every turn of the wheel.

I keep checking the mirror.

Someone’s following me.

I know they are.

I know it.

What if they take her?

What if this is the last time I ever see her?

What if she disappears the second we pull into that lot?

What if the whole thing’s a trap?

“Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly. Patrick. Levana. Hattie. Milo. Alexander. Mally. Dolly.”