14. scouring

14

SCOURING

DAY 10

At 9:00 p.m. on the dot, the head of the cleaning staff, Margaret, meets me in the Fish Tank. She's a no-nonsense woman with dark hair slicked back in a tight bun and frown lines bracketing her mouth.

Having clearly played this part in a resident's punishment before, she gives me perfunctory instructions. Where to dump and refill the water—in a back room she unlocks for me—how much time I should spend in each area—twenty minutes—and a warning—she'll be inspecting my work in the morning. She finally looks me up and down, huffs, and saunters away with the keyring at her waist jingling.

I actually don't mind the labor. It soothes the burn in my bones, though doesn't entirely suppress it. By the time one hallway is done, and the Fish Tank's floors gleam, I'm sweating, my hair curling damply against my temples.

I've saved the final hallway for last. When I've mopped all the way from the locked door at the end—presumably the security monitoring station—to Chastain's door, I stop and lean against a wall to rest. And, if I'm honest, to rethink my plan to pick the lock and find my file.

My fingers toy with a set of hairpins in my pocket. Maybe I won't be able to get in, my skills too rusty. Maybe the lock is too complex, its simplistic design merely camouflage to lure deviants like me.

The desire to know the truth of my missing months battles an equally potent desire to leave whatever memories I've buried where they are.

I stare at the door until the itch returns, driving me forward to press my ear against the wood. There's no light on inside, but I'm not stupid. And thank fuck, because my plan turns to smoke when I hear his voice.

"… I know it's hard, Marianne… I'm sorry… Yes, of course, I'd love to talk to him."

There's a long silence wherein I hear his muted footsteps pacing. When he speaks again, he's so close to the door that I jump, my heart leaping to my throat.

"Hey there, buddy… I miss you, too! How's school?" Whatever is said makes him chuckle. I melt into the door as the rich sound flows through the wood.

"You did? That's awesome, Vince! I can't wait to see you in action." Another laugh. "I'll get on a surfboard if you get on ice skates… Really? Okay, it's a deal… I love you, too, and miss you so much, but I'll be home soon, okay? Will you put your mom back on the phone?"

My breathing is shallow and uneven. I screw my eyes shut, searching for a loophole, something to prove that what I'm hearing isn't true. That Leo Chastain isn't married with a child. But there's no relief. Of course he named his son Vince, after his brother.

"Hey," he says softly. Intimately. He laughs. "Yes, I told him that. I'll have to take surfing lessons so I don't make a fool of myself in front of my kid… You think so? Well, I'd like to see you on a surfboard, too. It's a date… Okay, give my love to Vince and Celia. I'll see you guys soon. Love you, too. Bye."

My eyes are still closed, all of my attention focused on the piercing ache in my chest, when the wood beneath my ear disappears.

I yelp, grabbing for the doorframe and missing, and land hard on my knees before Chastain.

"Fuck!" he hollers. "You scared the shit out of me, Amelia! What the fuck are you doing here?"

Kill me, I beg the universe.

I'm ignored.

I hazard a look up. "Do you know any cuss words besides fuck and shit? I can teach you a few if you'd like."

He grabs my bare arm and hauls me to my feet. I yank my arm away, and there's a moment that he doesn't let go, that we're stretched apart like dancers.

He releases me with a grunt, taking a step backward. The only light on in the room is the lamp on his desk, which wreathes his hair while shadowing his expression.

"I'm going to ask you one more time: what are you doing here? Were you trying to get into my office?"

"No need to shout," I snap, moving to the side so he can see the mop and bucket. "I'm serving out my sentence for the crime of jumping into the pool. "

His gaze dissects my flushed face, my damp hair, and my bare legs and sneakers.

"Where did you go today?" I ask, when what I really want to ask is, Who were you talking to? Why don't you wear a wedding ring?

"None of your business," he says, just like I knew he would.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Okay, well, sorry for surprising you. I was just leaning against your door taking a break. No harm no foul."

My legs are half-numb as I move to collect the mop bucket. I make it two steps before his voice freezes me.

"Amelia. Do you remember what I told you about lying?"

I turn around slowly. It takes every ounce of control I have to merely raise my eyebrows. "That I shouldn't bother because you're a better liar than I am?"

His frame fills the doorway, his face and eyes becoming clear in the hallway's lights. I can't decipher his expression, but his gaze is unnervingly intent.

This man. This fucking man. Why does he have to be so goddamn beautiful?

"I still haven't forgiven you for your assumptions about Kinsey and myself."

I blink in surprise. "Okay."

Still with his eyes trained on mine, he asks, "Is your fascination with me due to the fact you can't read me? That you can't find any weaknesses to exploit?"

I laugh to disguise my spiking blood pressure. "Good Lord, are you high? "

"Answer the question, Amelia."

I glance down the hallway. Where the fuck is a bystander when you need one?

I'm unravelling, on shifting earth. He's too close to the truth. A truth I haven't even admitted to myself yet.

"I'm not comfortable with this conversation," I say stiffly.

"I'm not comfortable with you ," he snaps, then goes rigid, mouth thinned and jaw clenched.

My eyes fly to his face. "What? What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing."

Anger is a hot, bright blessing, soothing away the rough edges of my emotions. I point a shaking finger at his chest. "Fuck that. Fuck you. I haven't done anything to you. And trust me, there are about a million things I want—and could—do to you!"

"Like what?" he bites out.

I step right up to him, my face tilted just inches from his and my accusing finger wedged between us. "I want to ruin your fucking life!"

His gaze flies over my face. "Why?" he asks mutedly, as though he really wants to know.

Because I want you.

Because I trust you.

Because you see me.

I take a shaky step back, then another, until a safe three feet separate us. Only then do I notice his hands clenched at his sides. The rapid rise and fall of his chest .

Finally, I confront his eyes. And in them, my worst nightmare is confirmed. No longer ice, but fire—desire.

"You don't wear a wedding ring!" I blurt.

He frowns. "I'm not married." Then his expression clears. "You were listening at the door."

"Yes, dumbass," I say belligerently.

He shakes his head. When he looks at me again the fire is gone, and he's once again the cool and collected Dr. Chastain.

"This conversation is over. My personal life is none of your business, nor will it ever be. Please refrain in the future from eavesdropping on my private conversations."

The words are a bucket of cold water on my face and heart. Nor will it ever be. I can't decide whether his proclamation makes me hate him or respect him even more.

I nod rigidly. "Good night, Dr. Chastain."

With a final, searing glance, he kicks the door closed between us.