No, no, no.
I flip open my browser and search Alicia King. That’s what I usually do when I miss her. I study her pictures with Jonathan and their son on the internet from fundraisers and parties.
The results that enumerate in front of me aren’t of those joyful events, though.
‘Breaking News: Alicia King found dead after a tragic accident.’
‘Jonathan King is a widower after the death of his wife, Alicia King.’
‘An accident takes the life of Alicia King, Jonathan King’s wife.’
The first droplets of rain hit my screen and more soon follow.
My legs abandon me and I drop to the ground as I see the pictures of Alicia’s white car, the one she used to take me all over town with as we shopped and ate.
Then the images of a body covered in a white sheet appear.
The rain blurs my vision as I scroll through the articles, all from today.
Alicia is dead. My sister is dead.
No.
No…
Alicia. You can’t leave me.
She promised we’d see each other more often if I chose to study in a university in London once I was eighteen.
I was counting the days, crossing them off my calendar until I got there.
A sob tears from my throat as a sense of grief sneaks up on me quietly and grips me in its clutches. All our moments together play like a distant song at the back of my head, and the fact that I’ve lost her forever engulfs me in a wave of darkness.
A bleak world.
A strangled heart.
This can’t be happening.
Alicia can’t be gone.
It’s a lie. It has to be.
Still, my tears blind my eyes no matter how much I bargain with my head.
I stare up at the sky, at the stormy clouds and the pounding rain. At the howling wind in the trees and the desolate road.
That’s how it feels inside. Barren. Hollow.
Wake me up, please. I can’t breathe. Someone wake me up.
My phone vibrates and I startle as a picture of Dad lifting me in his arms on my sixteenth birthday flashes on the screen.
My Hero.
I named him my hero, but he never wore a superhero cape. Not even close.
I stare behind me, my tears coming to a screeching halt. I hop on my bike, throw my phone in the basket, and pedal down the road the fastest I can. The rain soaks me, my dark hair sticks to my forehead and my mouth, but I don’t stop my high speed.
The phone flashes with a text from Dad.
My Hero: You were here, weren’t you, my little muse?
Muse. That’s what Dad calls me sometimes. When I asked him why he uses that nickname, he said it’s because I inspire him to be a better man.
My breathing catches as I stare behind me. No one is following me, but I feel as if someone is.
The phone flashes again, and this time I do answer, putting it on speaker as I continue my escape.
“Clarissa.” His suave, welcoming tone suffocates the air. The Yorkshire accent is barely there. “You know I don’t like it when you don’t answer my calls.”
“W-why…? Tell me why, Dad.”
“It’s not what it seemed, Muse. Wait for me at home. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Why, Dad?!” I shriek. “Why?”
“Because I can. I’ll be there in a few.”
The line is cut off. Just like that. It’s completely cut off.
I open my mouth to scream, but it remains slack and nothing comes out. I contemplate pedalling straight off the edge of a cliff.
Maybe if I do, I won’t feel Dad’s betrayal and Alicia’s loss.
Maybe I can erase today from my memories and I can call Alicia and she’ll pick up. I can solve a puzzle with Dad and make him pizza afterwards and we’ll binge-watch true crime on Netflix.
But driving myself over the edge won’t solve anything.
It won’t bring back life to the dead woman he drug across the ground.
I pedal all the way to the town centre, ignoring the screams of my exhausted leg muscles and the funny way people look at me. Some greet me, but I don’t reply. I can’t.
There are only a few words in my mouth, and none of them are meant to be said back as a greeting.
I stop in front of a shabby building, throw my bike aside, and forge in. I hesitate at the threshold, but then I recall Alicia’s soft voice.
‘The silence of an accomplice is similar to committing the crime.’
Alicia, whom I can’t see again. Alicia, who was stolen from my life as if she never existed.
I barge inside and a few officers pause at my entrance. I must look like a mess, soaked in rain, my clothes glued to my skin, and my face must be pale, lips blue from the cold.
A black officer approaches me, his eyes firm but welcoming. “May I help you, Miss?”
“I…I want to report a murder.”
21
Jonathan
Aurora isn’t home when I get back.
She isn’t answering her phone either. And my last email is still without a reply.
I’m not to be ignored. If she’s throwing one of her fits or acting out, I’m going to take it out on her arse.
Only, she’s not the type who throws a fit without a solid reason. This morning, she came all over my fingers after she licked her plate clean.
When I let her go, she smoothed her skirt and grumbled that she needed a change of clothes as she headed back to her room.
There was no need for a fit.
No matter how she feels wronged, Aurora realises how much she needs the touch only I can provide. She knows that she can’t fight herself when it comes to me. The harder she denies it, the faster her body falls under my command.
There’s euphoria in the way she falls, even when she doesn’t want to. I’m slowly shaping her to be my perfect submissive, but at the same time, I don’t want to extinguish her fire. I also don’t want to erase the way she glares up at me every time she comes down from her high.
She hates that she can’t resist of her trance when it comes to me. And because she can’t do anything about it, she directs that hatred towards me.
I’m fine with it. As long as I have her in my grasp.
It started with the need to unravel her and the blasphemy of thinking she could keep a secret from me.
Now, it’s more.
I don’t even understand it myself, but I’m ready to see it until the very end.
Which brings me to her flat.
A quick inquiry with Harris told me all I needed to know. She had a visit from Maxim’s solicitor and she escaped to here.
I hit in the code and go inside. The security came to ask who I am, but after a talk with Harris, who’s now waiting for me in the car, he backed away.
The flat is dark except for the TV which shows a black screen but it’s not turned off. An automatic light flashes at the entrance as I step inside.
Aurora’s flat is medium-sized with countless pictures of watches on the walls. Her taste is mostly in black and white. Her sofas are black. Her walls are white. The hanged watches are black, the carpet is white.
The colour scheme hints at something different than her taste, highlighting her internal chaos.
At first, I don’t see her, but then I make out a body curled into a foetal position on the floor.
I pause, trying to get a better view of the scene before me. Something inside me moves. No idea what it is, but it just moves.