Chapter 11 Nina

Chapter 11

?Nina

There are sounds in the night. Things move in the darkness outside the house, or perhaps inside—I can't be certain if it's both, or neither. I try not to think of what lies beneath me beyond the locked door in the basement.

I tell myself that the noises are nothing, just the palms rustling in the breeze, birds screeching, creatures moving about. Or the clanking of the building's metal as it cools after a day in the hot sun—nothing more.

These are the sounds the world makes, I remind myself; I just couldn't hear them over the constant rumble of city life.

London was full of other noise: crime, sirens, violence, and humanity, but now, here, there is almost nothing and I find myself scared for the first time in a long time.

Silence sets the imagination on fire. And my imagination is primed with fears, death high up there, death front and center of everything right now.

And when you are alone there's a lot to be afraid of: intruders, accidents, or perhaps, worst of all, the slow unspooling of your own lonely mind.

—

I wake to sunlight streaming through the edges of the blinds. I check my phone and let out a low grunt.

I overslept. Though it is hard to quantify oversleeping when there is no immediate reason to get out of bed.

I step out regardless and it is only when I am on my feet that the usual morning wave of memory hits me.

I am treated to my very own highlight reel of pain: guilt, shame, my father's last days, the last thing I said to him: "Thank you for loving me every day of my life, Dad." And the last thing he said to me: "It was the simplest, best thing I ever did." And the empty house back home, my advancing age, my lack of family, my stalled career, and ultimately the knowledge that in spite of what he said I must have been a disappointment to a brilliant man.

With that morning shot of joy I head to the kitchen to sink a coffee as fast as humanly possible.

The emptiness yawns inside me. It takes me an inordinate amount of time to understand the coffee machine, and then to operate it, but eventually I triumph. I sip gratefully and push all other thoughts away.

I pull open the terrace's wide sliding doors and pad out onto the already warm tiles of the pool terrace, then place my cup on a table and sit. I inhale deeply, the sweetly fragranced air slowing my racing thoughts. Eyes closed, I try to imagine that this house, this life out here is mine. But then I suppose it is, in a sense. Eyes fluttering open my gaze falls to the terrace wall. It takes me a moment to focus properly on what I see there.

A note is flapping in the warm breeze on the wall, a rock holding it in place. I down a massive gulp of coffee and head over to get a better look.

As I get closer my pace slows, the words coming into focus. It is definitely not a note from James.

I stop abruptly as I read it, a warning, or a threat, roughly penned in Sharpie.

You need to leave. Now.