I wonder if anyone has ever taken care of this man. Not the way his staff does, but in a way that feeds his soul. For the first time since arriving at the mansion, I question the demons and devils in him. Did someone else put them there? Does he even know anything else? Is he fixable, and is that what he wants? I drop my hands down to his neck, where I continue to massage, letting my fingers travel over his shoulders and upper arms. His muscles are pure steel, so much so that my fingers and palms ache from digging and probing. The pain is good. He needs this; I can feel it in the way his arms constrict around my torso as he sighs into my hair. Eventually, his head draws back. I try to read his eyes, but I don’t get them for long. “Thanks,” he says, touching the corner of my mouth with his thumb. “I’ll be back for dinner. We’ll eat in your room.”

His arms slip from under mine, leaving me soaked and alone. I know wondering what it would take to make that dark heart light is dangerous. But a wild hunger is building fast in me. I don’t know if I’ve been starved for anyone for months or starved for Calvin my whole life.

My focus on escape cannot waver, though. In the end, it’s me or him. If I try to take on his demons, it could mean my life. Or, worse, I could end up imprisoned here forever.

26

Calvin’s wet touch still lingers on my skin when I exit the bathroom. It’s light out, though the sun is setting early these days. I change into pajamas and decide to nap until Calvin returns. When I wake, I sit up abruptly because Calvin is in the room. The first thing I notice is the way his navy, drawstring pants cling to every bulge and curve below his waist. Then the stark white t-shirt that outlines his muscles. To distract myself, I watch his movements. During the day, he didn’t seem affected by whatever Norman shot into his arm. Now he even seems at ease.

“Hey,” he says without looking up. “Feeling refreshed?”

I nod as he moves bowls from a cart to the coffee table. “Did you make that?”

“Yep. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.”

“Where’s Norman?”

“What’s wrong? Think I’m incapable of making and serving a meal?”

His tone is teasing so I smile.

“I know it’s not exactly foiegras,” he continues, grabbing two glasses from the cart, “but the wine is good.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Foie gras?” He glances up and shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

Watching him work intrigues me, and I find myself retrieving my camera from the nightstand’s top drawer. I take it to the coffee table with me and stand over the spread he’s building. I frame the shot, making sure to include both bowls, the wine, and Calvin’s hand as he sets a napkin near my plate. I hold the camera there for a moment and then lower it, smiling to myself.

“Why didn’t you take the picture?” he asks.

“I don’t need to. Sometimes I just like setting it up.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t like to waste film. I only capture the shots I know I can’t live without.”

His eyebrows rise imperceptibly. “You know that I’ll buy you as much film as you want.”

I shrug and set the camera on the table. While waiting for him to start, I play with my fork.

“Cataline?”

I look up. “Yes?”

“Do you think I’ll withhold film for bad behavior?”

I curse myself for having given him the idea, wishing suddenly I’d just taken the picture. “No,” I say airily. “I just hate the idea of wasting it.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Taking pictures? My whole life. Even as a kid, I—”

“No. How long have you been not taking pictures?”

“Oh. A few weeks, I guess.”

He glances behind me where the window is. “I see.” He stabs noodles with his fork and takes a bite, so I do the same.

“Thank you for making this,” I say. “I ate a lot of mac and cheese when I was younger, so it reminds me of being a kid.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “On the nights where I made dinner but there weren’t many groceries, I was secretly happy. Mac and cheese was my favorite, and we always had a box of that.”

“Why didn’t you go buy groceries?”

I scrunch my nose. “Not when I was a kid.”

“You made dinner as a child?”

“Sure. I did lots of things for them around the house. Cleaning, mowing, babysitting. Cooking, too, once I got better at making something other than instant pasta.”

“Them?” Calvin asks.

“I have—had a foster family.”

“Had? Don’t you anymore?”

“Not since I turned eighteen.”

“But that’s not something that just ends. Surely you keep in touch.”

I shake my head. “Haven’t heard from them since the day I left.”

His fork clatters against his plate. “What?”

“It’s okay. I haven’t reached out to them either.”

“But surely they call or write you once in a while?”

“No. They know I’m in New Rhone, but I doubt they even have Frida’s address.”

He’s staring at me like I have two heads. I touch the ends of my hair, twirling them around my index finger. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I didn’t really fit in with their daughters.” Calvin is beginning to glare. I purposely haven’t thought of these things in years. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and balls it up. He looks about to stand. “They were younger than me,” I say quickly, “always playing with dolls or new toys. Later, it was a lot of getting dressed up and socializing. I mostly read and took pictures, though.” I pause only long enough to swallow. “My living there was more of an arrangement than anything. Like I said, I helped out around the house and babysat. In exchange, the Andersons put a roof over my head and treated me well. I’m grateful, but I don’t feel the need to keep in touch.”

 “If you moved here straight from high school, where’d you get the money to survive?”

“I had . . .” I pause and look away. The lump in my throat seems to get bigger whenever my past comes up. But I’m afraid he’ll leave if I stop talking. “There was a small settlement from my parents’ death and an inheritance that I received at eighteen.” My fingers quietly shred the napkin in my lap. “Actually, it was a flyer in my mailbox that saved me. For the job fair Parish Media held. Delivered right to my address. I almost didn’t pursue it; I was so close to giving up. But Hale hired me the same day. Any longer without work, and I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“You spent all the inheritance money during the two years you looked for work?”

I cock my head at him. Did I say how long it’d been? “It wasn’t much. Just enough to give Frida some money each month and eat.”

“And the Andersons—they never gave you money after you left?”

“Um, no. Like I said, we haven’t spoken.”

Even though his eyes are no longer on me, anger radiates from him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he snaps before muttering, “that just doesn’t seem right.”

I laugh grimly. “You’re suddenly concerned about my well being?”

His head whips back to me. “Forget it.”

“Oh.” I look down and concentrate on getting macaroni into my mouth, trying to ignore the sting of his dismissal.

His chair scrapes against the wood floor. “I should try to get some work done tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean what I said. Don’t go.”

“I—”

“I’m finished too,” I interject, quickly wiping the corners of my mouth with what’s left of my napkin. “We can do something else.”

He answers gruffly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything you want.” I hate the words, hate that I’m pandering to him. I unclench my jaw. “A game,” I suggest. “We could play something.”

“A game?” he repeats.

“I’ve been practicing pool downstairs, but I have no one to play against.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“I’ll—we can play for money or something.”

“You have no money.”

I look at my hands. “No.”