Page 48

He stands with a young girl, barely older than eleven, and he strokes his nasty, old fucking hand over the top of her golden hair.

I don’t know what “ play” they’re expecting, but it isn’t fucking happening.

The girl turns at the sound of my steps, and I freeze.

It’s like I’ve travelled back in time and an eleven-year-old Delilah is standing in front of me.

Her eyes are the same dazzling blue, but her face is sunken in and she’s even wearing a dress that I’m sure I’ve seen before.

The soft pink lace and satin detailing is a replica of the dresses Delilah would be forced into before she had to play the piano for their guests.

My girl shuts down when she sees her grandfather, and begins humming to herself. Her fingers move against my spine, and she pushes her forehead flat against my bicep. The humming gets louder, and I don’t want to traumatize the literal child more than she already has been.

Meeting the old bastard’s eyes, I allow him to see my hate as I say, “No one in this house is doing anything for you.”

He strokes over the girl’s hair, slipping down to hold her small shoulder.

She’s too young to be the child Delilah might have, but the resemblance is uncanny.

If Delilah was pregnant when she killed Asher, her baby would be fourteen, fifteen at most. The girl looks too young but she’s thin.

It could be her, so I soften my to ask, “How old are you, sweetheart?”

Her eyes widen and she shyly answers, “Nine, sir.”

She’s tall for her age. I slowly step forward. “Do you want to go with that man?” She begins to shake her head but quickly stops. “You don’t have to,” I coax, taking another step.

“What on earth would make you think she doesn’t have to?” Helene asks, scandalized.

I turn, making sure that the kid can’t see her.

Delilah’s humming gets louder. The old fuck stands from her homely seat of torture, gently brushing the gummy flesh off her pants.

Blood trails after her as she steadily walks to the sink to wash her hands.

She looks over her shoulder at me, expecting an answer.

“Because she is a child and he is a grown fucking man,” I spit out, causing Delilah to flinch. Her arms press into her sides, and she doesn’t even blink as she hums. Her fingers get faster, the tapping increasing in pace and pressure, and I clench my teeth to stop the scream building inside of me.

“It is her job,” Helene snarls, ripping a dishcloth off the holder. The metal ring swings back, clapping against the tile as she turns and continues with her voice darkening, “Her duty. As it was already confirmed, she wouldn’t be there to entertain a grown man, but the lady.”

“Adults have no place being entertained by children.”

She laughs at my response like I’m the one in the wrong.

It’s a general consensus of normal civilization that children are to be kept from harm.

But we’re not anywhere remotely close to humanity.

Delilah’s strange behavior shows that. The hums get quieter as Helene’s heels click against the tiled floor.

Her fingers are still rapidly tapping my back, but she hums low in her throat and pinches her lips closed to trap the sound.

“Follow me,” Helene says, waving her hand in the air for me to move and allow her to pass.

The pliers aren’t in her hand, but her pant leg is covered in blood. The little girl doesn’t react to the obvious violence in front of her as she delicately follows Helene. When she’s at her side, she slips her small hand into the old, twisted bitch’s.

Delilah’s grandfather remains two steps behind them, and I keep my girl beside me as we follow them.

Helene’s heels echo through the gloomy hallway.

Little dots of red are stamped against the white tiles.

They only leave a shiny patch on the black checkers until they get fainter, and she stops in front of a set of double doors.

The black wood is shiny, and the brass handles don’t have any tarnished spots on them as Helene curls her fingers over the pull tab.

Delilah stiffens as the metal fixtures rattle, her limbs trembling and knocking her into me.

She shakes harder, despite her hums dying mid-note as the door creaks open and a large grand piano sits at the end of a long, narrow parlor in an isolated glass dome.

Each panel curves around the piano, and the raised area is tiled in the same checkered pattern as the hallway and kitchen.

But the veining is deeper, and it appears darker with the deep parquet flooring through the rest of the parlor and the moss green silk wallpaper covering the walls.

The wainscoting running halfway up the length of the wall is a darker green, closing everything other than the glass dome in like an audience staring at a stage.

We step forward as one. As soon as Delilah’s foot passes the threshold, she straightens her shoulders and steps away from my side.

I can’t focus on the creepy animal décor because her fingers loosen around my hand, and she robotically puts one foot in front of the other.

Her arm remains stretched behind her with my refusal to let her go, but she doesn’t look anywhere other than the piano.

Her socked feet glide against the dulled parquet floor like she’s glitching as I tighten my hold to drag her back to me. There’s no closing the gap to the piano, but she walks on the spot in the same haunting manner.

Stepping around her, I ignore the stares of the people in the room and those of the stuffed animals hoarded on every surface.

Uncaring that I’m going against Lennox’s warning and allowing them all to see that Delilah means everything to me, I hold her hip.

But Helene snaps her fingers and her voice drips in venom as she lets go of the little girl’s hand.

“Twice you have interfered. Do not think that I will allow a third time without a suitable punishment. Step. Aside.”

My pretty girl, now my wife, stares through me with blank eyes.

She doesn’t stay still or try to walk around me.

She just stares through my chest in the direction of the piano.

Her feet hit mine in her continual attempt to reach it.

Her grandmother comes to her side and guides her directly to it.

I don’t let go of her hand until her arm is awkwardly bent behind her.

I don’t—can’t—hurt her any more than she already has been, so I let her hand go.

It’s weak and pathetic but I can’t live through another punishment or have Delilah see me like that.

So, I sacrifice her and watch as she’s led to the raised area.

Her grandmother steps away, joining us to watch as my beautiful Delilah mechanically raises her foot and walks up the two steps.

I can’t see the bench with the piano blocking it as she walks around the large gloss-black instrument then lowers to the seat.

I’ve logged countless hours of watching my pretty girl play the piano.

From sneaking into her lessons after school so that I could spend more time with her, to her parents’ parties, to the private moments where she would only play for me.

It never mattered how many people were in attendance, as soon as the beautiful doll-like Delilah sat behind the piano, everyone’s attention would be on her and she would bask in their approval.

Not now. There’s no smile or confidence, no satisfaction of knowing that she’ll play both the instrument in front of her and the audience however she pleases.

The first sign of life enters her eyes as she blinks and winces. I slowly walk forward, needing her with me, but Helene grips my forearm. Her nails dig in as I try to pull my limb free.

“Watch,” she says, low and threatening.

It’s just playing the piano. Something that Delilah enjoys. She’s insanely talented. It was always her happy place, the one time she felt like she could be herself. She’d challenge herself with intricate compositions.

With her eyes locked on mine, she softly places her hands on the keys like we’re innocent teenagers again and she needs my attention more than anyone else’s in the room.

But there’s so much pain in her blue eyes, like she’s drowning, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her.

No one can. It was always the same when we were younger, and it was never due to how she was dressed or her beauty.

It’s the depth of emotion she can convey as soon as she presses her fingers to the keys.

The little girl is left alone, and Helene takes her nasty fucking hand off me. I slowly step to the side as the older fuckers gravitate towards the notes. Keeping the girl at my side, I take in the rest of the room.

A large glass cloche sits on the mantel, and I have to lean closer to make sure that I’m seeing the item properly.

The white fur of the small rabbit propped up on its hind legs is a stark contrast to the dark surroundings.

Two pairs of red eyes glow back at me. It has two fucking heads.

Two heads but one body. Slowly turning in a circle, I notice that every animal has something that makes it different.

The rabbit with the second head, a steer with one eye and the other side doesn’t have the pocket for its eyeball or lashes, a snake eating its own tail.

All of them are stuffed and immortalized, which is fucked up enough, but they’re either positioned to entice fear or they’re abnormal in some way.

There’s a shelf lined with wet specimen jars—some have the animals’ eyes open, others are gummy—and the liquid distorts them so I can’t make out what’s inside.

Delilah’s notes get longer, pained, and her eyes are glassy as I step closer. The change in position shows little red drops under the bench seat. I lose thought of Helene’s threat. I widen my stride, stepping through the fuckers mesmerized by her music, and reach her in five steps.

Then fucking freeze.