22. Chapter 22

Deacon's holed up in his office again, and I'm back to sitting on the couch and flipping through Netflix on my own.

It's been two days since we tore into each other on the kitchen table, and he showed me the inner workings of his operation afterward.

At first, I thought I'd be able to come and go from the vault-like cave now that I knew what he was doing in there.

Like, there's no need to close the door if I already know what's inside, right? Wrong.

Even though he's continued to keep me updated on any progress he makes in locating Dante's either living body or corpse, he also hasn't let me back into the room, claiming that he won't be able to concentrate with me there.

I'm not sure I believe him.

I know he's working on something else, something unrelated to Dante.

He thinks I didn't see him quickly turn off one of the monitors as soon as we entered the room the other day, but I did.

He didn't want me to see whatever he was researching, and considering how open he's being with information about the hunt for Dante, I have to believe it's something completely different.

Maybe he's also working on a new job? Some stolen trinket or other that needs to be sold? Or maybe it's something personal he doesn't want anyone to know about?

Either way, I can't say that being barred from the room didn't sting a little.

I'm not sure why I expected more, especially when I know better than anyone that men can't be trusted not to keep secrets.

Unfortunately, the useless organ in my chest still feels tight when I think about it, which makes no sense because I don't feel that way towards him.

No, definitely not.

Although, against my better judgment, when he doesn't have me bordering on homicidal rage, I can admit to myself that I might actually like him.

As for whether he likes me back … I'm still not sure.

I know he claims to want me, and his behavior would indicate the same.

But the ever-present voice in my head whispers that I'm just another warm body to him.

That he's biding his time with me while we're stuck together.

That he could never actually fall for someone like me.

Someone with too much excess baggage in both the physical and emotional departments.

Wait, rewind.

And no, not on the remote I've been holding that's just dropped into my lap.

For a minute, I stare unseeingly at the TV, contemplating my own sanity.

Did my brain just use the term fall for ? Why did I think that? Siren, you dumb bitch, have you not learned your lesson? I don't want that, not with him .

Maybe in 10 years, when I've spent a small fortune on therapy and have gone a sufficient time frame without being abducted and tormented, I'd find a nice man and settle down.

Well, as much as someone like me could settle down.

Based on everything I've come to learn about Deacon, he's not the settling-down type.

He's the "I could go to prison any minute so let me fuck your brains out"

type.

No, I don't want that with him, and I'm certain he would never want that with me.

Sure, the sex was phenomenal, and both times, he'd literally made me see stars, but that's all it was.

Sex.

Don't get me wrong, sex was great, but right now, I'd settle for simple companionship.

Nearly three weeks of practically living in solitude was lonely, which also made no sense because I didn't mind being by myself.

I was used to my own company, living alone in my Charleston apartment, but I was always free to leave when the voices in my head got too much.

To walk around the city and find some trouble.

Here, I was stranded in the swamp with nothing to do and no one to talk to but that annoying voice inside my head that only made me think the worst of myself.

During these moments, I would usually find solace in my music, but the memories of Dante's house have kept me away from my violin.

As I sit on the couch in the living room, I glance over to where the instrument sits abandoned, propped against a wall.

I remember, in vivid detail, everything that happened that night, but I don't remember Deacon grabbing my violin before we left.

How, amid all the chaos, he knew it was important to take it, I don't know.

I want to play, but I don't think I can.

The violin used to speak to me on a level that most people could never understand.

We had our own language.

We each understood and appreciated the beauty the other had to offer the world.

It took me so long, after my first escape, to be able to hear the music again.

This time, I worry that the notes will never come back, and even if they do, they'll fall on deaf ears.

I fear it's possible that that process actually started weeks ago.

The music came out flat and lifeless when forced to play for a madman.

I knew it and he knew it.

Despite knowing I'd be punished, I couldn't put my heart and soul into something that was being taken from me by force, stripped away, like layers of armor I'd built up around myself until what remained was a raw and festering wound.

One more to add to the many others he gave me, though the significance of this one wouldn't be easily healed by a tattoo cover-up.

I used to be able to to make people weep with only strings and a bow.

Now, the only person that wept was me, because there was only silence.

I glance toward the kitchen, and what I know lies beyond it.

I have to admit, if only to myself, that even though all the melodies in my head have gone quiet, over the course of the last few weeks, the urge to go searching for them has grown stronger.

I have to concede the possibility that if I want that music back, I can't just sit around and wait for it to find me.

I'll have to take it.

I'm just not sure how.

What if I put the bow to the strings and nothing happens? If I'm not that girl anymore, that musical prodigy, who am I? What else do I have to offer the world?

Running my hands over my face, I stand from the couch and walk to the kitchen to get a drink.

Deep introspection made a bitch dehydrated.

While standing next to the fridge, with a glass of sweet tea in hand, I take the few steps that allow me to see into the laundry room.

As expected, the wall that doubles as the door to Deacon's office is closed, and no sound comes from inside.

I know my expression is a sour one.

I'm annoyed.

I'm going crazy in this house, and if I don't get out of here soon, forget the therapy.

I'm gonna have to be committed.

I glare at the closed door and the little red flashing light on the security panel, an idea begins to take root.

If he's going to hole up in there and leave me to my own devices, then he can't be angry if I get to know my surroundings a little better.

I've been like a phantom for over two weeks, floating from point A to point B.

From the bed to the couch then back to the bed.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'm sick of the routine.

With renewed purpose, I take my glass of tea and begin nosing my way through his house.

First, I re-inspect the living room.

I've spent enough time in it to know roughly where everything is, but this time, I move around the room slowly, taking in finer details I haven't noticed before.

A small figurine of a shooting star amid the many photographs above the fireplace.

A handful of loose change.

A framed cross-stitch of a sunflower hanging on the wall.

A little glass container of seashells on a side table.

The items aren't necessarily out of place amongst the rest of the décor, but they don't exactly fit either.

Each item varies so much from the rest that I imagine they must have some kind of personal meaning behind them.

I store that theory away to investigate at a later date.

Making my way down the hallway, I enter the bathroom, opening every drawer and inspecting hair products and toiletries.

Again, there are things here that fit the overall mishmash motif, but some seem almost feminine in nature, like they were picked out by a woman.

The idea puts a bad taste in my mouth.

An old-fashioned crocheted toilet paper cover is sat on the back of the tank next to a potpourri bowl.

I didn't think they even made that anymore.

Did it still have a smell? I pick up the bowl and bring it to my nose.

It does.

It smells floral, but I can't pinpoint from which flower.

Hydrangeas, maybe? I sit the bowl back down and exit the bathroom, entering Deacon's bedroom.

Here, I pause in the doorway, sticking my head back out into the hall to make sure he hasn't come out of his hidy-hole looking for me.

When I don't see a 6ft+ surfer lookalike charging down the hallway, I pull my head back inside the room.

As I stand in the doorway, I glance around the room to see if anything interesting jumps out at me.

I've slept in his king-sized bed every night since I got here, but aside from sleeping, I haven't moved around the room much.

Zeroing in on his dresser, I set my glass of tea on top, then proceed to rummage through each drawer shamelessly.

Starting from the bottom, I pick over the countless t-shirts and folded pairs of worn jeans.

I'm greeted by a sea of socks and underwear when I open the top drawer. Picking through the pieces, I estimate the man owns 400 pairs of boxer briefs. I can't help but let out a little snicker, and my mood is improving by the second. In fact, the thought of Deacon's face if he knew I was elbow deep in his manties has that snicker turning to a full-blown grin. One that remains as I abandon the dresser in favor of searching the closet. My disappointment is palpable when I open it to find only a handful of very expensive suits and several pairs of shoes, ranging from designer dress shoes to dingy work boots.

I'm just about to close the doors when the glint of something metal catches my eye.

Turning on the light, I see that it's a small box, similar to the kind used to hold money at a yard sale.

It's tucked away on the highest shelf, apart from everything else.

My curiosity piqued, I reach for it but pause just as my fingers brush the cold steel.

Unlike the dresser and bathroom drawers, something about this box and its location makes me second-guess the idea of opening it.

A sudden sense of foreboding penetrates my need for distraction.

It's obviously been put there for a reason.

Deacon either doesn't want others to see what's in there, or he's placed it there to hide it from himself.

Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.

Would he be angry if I looked inside? He never specifically told me that I couldn't wander the house or that any particular area was off-limits, but if this were a fairytale, my gut tells me that this box would be the west wing.

I gnaw my bottom lip in indecision.

Glancing towards the open doorway again, I finally decide, fuck it.

I've already gone through everything else.

If I'm gonna end up paying the time, I should at least do the crime.

Reaching up, I carefully bring the box down from its resting place.

The top is covered in a thick layer of dust, as though it hasn't been moved, much less opened, in years.

Sitting cross-legged on the closet floor, I place the box in front of me, staring at it as if it's a snake waiting to bite me.

Mind made up, I flip the latch and ease the lid open.

What I find inside surprises me.

There are more pictures, like those in the living room, but these aren't framed.

They look old and worn, the corners frayed, and some show signs of creasing or water damage.

Flipping through them, I'm treated to glimpses into Deacon's life growing up.

Many of the pictures appear to be of happy times with a smiling Deacon and a woman I now know is his mother.

Others seem to be candid photos that, if I had to guess, were taken by one without the other's knowledge.

In the ones of Deacon's mother, her face and appearance range from bright and sunny to melancholy.

In the latter, her eyes give the impression that she's somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

In the individual pictures of Deacon, he's either shielding his face from his mother's onslaught or doing some menial household chore—dishes, laundry, cleaning up trash.

In none of the pictures do I see a man that could possibly be Deacon's father.

As I reach the end of the stack, the only other thing in the box is a plain envelope that was probably once white but has since faded to a dingy cream color.

I pick it up carefully.

Deacon's name is written in a distinctly feminine scrawl on the front.

I experience a moment of hesitation, as though some part of my brain is screaming at me that I'm about to cross a line I can't come back from.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, I can't stop myself from turning the envelope over and pulling out the contents.

As I stare at the single worn piece of paper inside, my heart feels like it's beating a mile a minute.

The fear of getting caught is like spiders crawling up my back, and I wonder if I'd even hear someone approach over the drumbeat of my heart in my ears.

I push past the fear, because I've already come this far and unfold the paper to find a letter.

Even knowing that this is a massive invasion of privacy, I begin reading it anyway.

I read and re-read the words written by Deacon's late mother, my eyes skimming the page back and forth, trying to comprehend the meaning behind them.

It isn't until fresh splotches of wetness land on top of older, dried marks of a similar shape that I realize I'm crying. My vision blurs, and the words become illegible as the tears flow freely down my cheeks, landing on the paper below. Deacon's mother committed suicide. Like puzzle pieces clicking into place, the vacant looks in many of the photos makes sense now. And according to the letter, he never knew who his father was until after his mother died. Did he go looking for him? Did he find him, or is he still searching? So many questions run through my mind and I want so badly to ask him. I want to show him that his secrets are safe with me and that he can trust me with the darkest parts of himself. But I have a feeling, my words wouldn't be welcome. Especially not after I only learned about all this by snooping without his permission. I need to take some time to process everything I've just learned about a man that I once thought of as one-dimensional but can now recognize as just as multifaceted as the diamond he was after the night he found me. I carefully refold the letter and put it back into its envelope. Gently laying the contents back into the box exactly the way I found them, I place it back onto the top shelf before turning off the light and closing the closet. I pray he doesn't notice anything out of place. The good thing is, I'm no longer bored. I've got too many thoughts floating through my head to be bored. The bad thing is that I may be trapped in a house with a man I don't really know.