Tick, tick, tick.
The sound of my heavy breathing and the blood rushing in my ears are all I hear as I push the window up as high as I can. I manage to lift the heavy thing about two feet, and I hope it’ll be enough. I know there’s a way to somehow angle the window and get the screen out, but in my haste and nervousness, I can’t figure it out.
The heater clicks on again and I nearly have a heart attack, my scream barely contained as it tries to escape from my throat.
Tick, tick, tick.
I can’t wait any longer. As the heat drifts up from the vent and mixes with the frigid November air that blows across my face, I panic.
My only thought is to rip out the screen. Without wasting another tick of the internal clock, I snatch a shirt from the hamper to my right and wrap it around my hand. My footsteps were far too loud, but time is more important.
I take one more look back at the door before punching through the screen. It breaks surprisingly easily and I nearly fall forward, the torn mesh scraping against my forearm. I contain my gasp and ignore how my heart seems to leap up my throat as I look down two stories to the cold hard ground below. It’s a sobering sight.
There’s a thin layer of white snow coating the grass and although the weather has let up, the air is sharp from the biting wind. I take a deep breath, pulling the ripped screen back and tearing it open more, protecting my hand with the clothing. Somehow ripping it wider is more difficult than making the initial tear.
My breathing comes in faster, and the light-headed sensation returns when the hole is large enough for me to climb through.
All the spiked edges of the broken screen are going to catch on my sweater, I already know. Once I get footing out on the sill, I’ll have to try to grip onto the pillar to my right and slowly climb down while balancing myself on the stones that line the house. It’s practically impossible. My head shakes of its own accord at the thought, refusing to feel defeated. I have to do this. I have no other choice.
The threads of my sweater snag like I knew they would the moment I climb through the window and brush against the screen, but I press forward. As my left foot finds purchase on the windowsill, the wind blows so forcefully that I cling to the frame with my right hand and consider abandoning the idea completely. I’ve gone absolutely mad. My nose and cheeks burn from the biting cold, and I have to close my eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I refuse to go back in there. The second the wind stops, I finish crawling out and balance on the ledge, my knuckles bright white from holding on so tightly. Each time I have to readjust my grip, I’m filled with a renewed sense of terror. Only the balls of my feet are balanced on the thin ledge, and my hands already ache from clutching the window in the bitter cold.
I make the mistake of looking down and seeing how far I’d drop and how there’s nothing to break my fall if the wind were to blow too hard. Or if my grip gives out, or if something else happens and I fail. I don’t want to die.
A few moments pass and I simply can’t move. The wind whips my hair around my face and I shut my eyes tight, frozen by the vision of me plummeting to my death.
This is taking too much time. I need to get going. My left foot moves first, all the way to the edge of the sill and as far as I can get with both of my hands still gripping the window frame.
I have to let go in order to lean over, and I do it so quickly and with so much force that I nearly push myself off. My head spins from the height, but I keep moving. My right hand grips the window and my left reaches for the brick closest to the pillar. My nails scratch at the rough stone, but my grip is solid.
I feel stuck for the longest time. The cold makes my hands numb and the wind is coming and going so frequently that I’m afraid the second I move, it will violently rip me away from the pillar, but I manage the motion in a single leap.
A scream is torn from my throat as I fall an inch or two until my sneaker hits the decorative carving on the pillar and I’m able to wrap my arms around it. Adrenaline roars inside of me and I pray Mason didn’t hear. And then I make another silent prayer: that this foolish plan will work.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I climb down inch by inch. The only places I dare to look are directly in front of me and up to the open window. I watch the curtains sway inside of the bedroom as I slip down the pillar at a snail’s pace, relying on the tread of my sneakers against the carved marble pillar for purchase.
I don’t even realize I’ve made it safely until I try to slide farther down and can’t. There’s ground beneath my feet.
Astonished and still very much consumed by fear, I note my sweater is torn with pulls everywhere, and I’m so cold I can hardly move my limbs. I look up once more at the open window and realize it’s only a matter of time before he realizes I’m gone.
Run. I don’t hesitate one more second. My sore limbs come to life as I take off down Mason’s driveway and I don’t look back.
Mason
I need to make two things clear to her.
I love her, and I always will.
She’s not leaving me.
We’re going to work through this one way or another. Even if I have to drug her. I know the chances of a roofie working at this point are slim to none, but depending on her reaction, it’s the only thing I can think of and the only easy out to make things right again. If only she would forget.
As I draw closer to the top of the stairs, a cold draft wraps itself around me. At first, I’m confused, then furious. She didn’t. She wouldn’t… my denial is pointless. I already know she did.
My pace picks up and I bang on the bedroom door. My knuckles slam against the hard wood door and I yell out, “Jules!”
How long has it been, maybe a half hour at most since I locked her in there? My heart hammers in my chest. She’s gone. She’s left me.
It’s no use. I can already feel the cold air seeping into the hall from under the door. The keys are already in my hand as I pound my fist against the door again like a fucking fool, nearly breaking down the door. They rattle as I find the right one and shove it into the lock before throwing open the door. I’m greeted with an empty bed and the biting cold blowing in through a torn window screen.
I stare at the window for only a second before taking long strides across the room, pulling the curtain back to look down at the ground outside. I half expect to see her lying dead on the grass.
She’d rather risk this than deal with me.
My throat closes at the bitter thought, and the harsh wind whispers, taunting me that she simply jumped to end it all. Relief is unexpected but welcome when I peer out and trace the footsteps in the snow. She hasn’t been gone long judging by how clean and clear the prints are.
My lungs threaten to fail me as I take off out the room and down the stairs, and I don’t stop moving as I snatch my car keys and phone off the front hall table. She’s out there with a head start and I only have so much time to catch her. My coat’s in the living room, but I don’t bother with it. I don’t bother with anything other than climbing into my Mercedes and reversing out of the driveway as quickly as I can.
A thin layer of sweat covers my skin and only adds to the freezing effect of the air.
If she tells anyone… I’m fucked.
“She can’t,” I say under my breath and curse, the vision of her testifying against me flashing in front of my eyes. There’s hardly any snow on the asphalt, and her footprints disappear in less than a quarter mile. With my hands gripping and twisting the leather steering wheel, I continue to drive ahead. I glance down every small gap I pass, although the main road is vacant. It’s early morning and I know there are plenty of cars that drive by here on their way to work. She could have flagged someone down.