Page 31 of Violent Little Thing
Home Invasion
DELILAH
S ome things are worse than death.
The first time I heard that phrase, I was fifteen years old and sitting outside of my father’s office, eavesdropping while he held a meeting. It was eleven years ago and just the beginning of the money woes Rose Cosmetics faced before going bankrupt and being pulled from retail shelves.
That day, my father welcomed a business consultant into the house to talk through some observations and options moving forward.
Sadly, he was too proud and ignored most of those recommendations.
It wasn’t until later that I understood the company’s board members sent the consultant as an intervention after my father bulldozed his way past their official advice.
At the time, Marcellus was power drunk on being a member of The Society.
He felt invincible, so when the consultant and lawyer suggested filing Chapter 11, he told them there were things worse than death .
For example, having to publicly file for bankruptcy and risk falling out of favor with his friends who actually had the means to back up their affluent lifestyles.
Appearing weak was worse than death to him, and that sentiment eventually led to his demise. Both in business and in life.
Today, more than ever, I’m finding truth in what he believed.
I’ve gotten so comfortable in my new cage that some days I forget it’s still a cage.
I’m getting soft and that’s exactly what a predator like Adonis would want.
Whenever his benevolence runs out, I’ll have to deal with the consequences of letting myself believe it was ever anything other than captivity.
Because the man I’m supposed to hate has turned into a tolerable nuisance.
I hate the way he notices changes in my mood before I can mask them.
I hate the way he tricks me into conversations with him every night.
I hate the way he knows what I like to eat. Today, when he ordered for me at the sushi spot, I’d been doubtful until everything arrived at the table.
He knows all my vices and I’m tired of him seeing me at my worst.
Tired of needing him.
Tired of owing him.
And no matter how hard I try to trick myself into believing otherwise, it’s jarring to have all these tender moments from the past few weeks with someone who took me to get back at my brother .
Even worse when I think about how comforting he is. In every way.
He shouldn’t be the first person I want to see when I wake up, but he is.
His voice shouldn’t be the last sound I want to hear before I go to sleep, but it is.
Adonis is everything I didn’t want him to be. It’s exactly why I need a minute to myself when we get home from the pharmacy.
In my room, I set the paper bag with my new prescriptions on the nightstand, pivoting halfway before freezing at the sight of the folder that wasn’t there this morning.
In blocky handwriting, “FOR MS. DELILAH” is scrawled in black sharpie.
Below that is the string of ten numbers I memorized the day Indigo sent me the photo.
704-555-8851
Trying to steady my hands, I lift the folder and inhale.
“Oh my god.” I marvel at the weight of it. “When did he leave this here?” I wonder aloud, my mind flashing back to Adonis telling me Victor had the day off. A tender feeling consumes me at the thought of him using his day off to get this to me.
I make sure my door is closed and sit down on the floor with my back pressed against it.
Everything else on my mind is wiped clean as I open the folder, hands shaking and all.
A copy of a phone bill tops the stack of documents. My eyes scan it quickly, whispering the details to myself.
The account originated in Charlotte, North Carolina as I suspected. Five years ago.
But the name attached to the phone bill elicits nothing but confusion .
Elodie King.
I read it over and over, trying to ring a bell but coming up empty.
As I turn the pages, my brows pinch harder at every new detail.
Fifty-three years old.
Chemistry professor for the last two years at a private women’s college in Raleigh.
Married.
“The woman has her shit together, but what the hell does she want with me?”
As if he knew I’d have that question, the next paper Victor included is dedicated to every alias the woman has had.
Elodie King f/k/a Elodie Carmichael f/k/a Melody Rose f/k/a Melody Hart.
Over and over, my attention homes in on the name in the middle of the list.
Melody Rose.
Her married name.
A name she changed twenty-two years ago before adopting the name Elodie Carmichael.
My heart pounds violently as my hand crumples the paper.
Melody Rose. The name is a stain on my vision now. I can see it even after I slam my eyes shut to focus on my breaths.
Melody Rose.
The woman who left my father.
Melody Rose.
The woman who gave birth to me and left me in that house.
A torrent of emotions winds around my windpipe until I’m coaching myself through manual breathing.
Melody Rose.
My mother.
The woman who chose herself.
And now she’s dropping envelopes at my door like she didn’t disappear from my life more than two decades ago.
Soon, a whirring sound fills my ears.
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
No matter what I do, my inhales feel like I’m sucking them through a narrow straw. It’s not enough oxygen. Not enough anything .
My breaths come out in gasps, but my tears don’t get a chance to fall because the unmistakable sound of glass shattering downstairs interrupts my pity party.
Without thinking, I jump to my feet, shove the folder under my pillow and whip my bedroom door open.