Page 21 of The Spiral

Chapter 8

Madeline

Several hours have passed as I’ve paced around the house not really knowing what to do with myself. It’s beautiful. Old, distinguished, slightly reminiscent of the ghost story the façade outside offers. It’s got all the corners and nooks to worry about, the occasional cobweb dangling to highlight its aged appearance.

I’ve wandered aimlessly, quietly opening doors and peeking inside. Every room is lovely, put together perfectly with matching curtains and designs, but it’s devoid of love or care. It’s feels like a film of grime has come down on it, killing its warmth. A bit like me now.

Hollow and cold.

A woman did this, or certainly a designer. It’s not a man’s style. Its English country gent, but with a touch of renaissance about it. The floral patterns on some of the walls clash with the tartan heritage cloth dotted about, and the heavy old oak brings notions of Scottish heritage, thistles engrained into the wood on some pieces. It’s attractive, and if it was any other day, I’d be smiling, I’m sure. I’m not, though. I’ve got nothing to smile about. My world is decimated.

He’s made it so.

Again.

I crawled into the bed last night, tossing and turning for a while until eventually I must have drifted off through my tears. Where Jack was for the night, I don’t know, and don’t know why he told me to lock the door either. I did, though. I preferred that thought to the possibility of anyone I didn’t know coming in. Given that he doesn’t lock his front door, I suppose that’s what he meant. Although, I’m not convinced. I saw something in his eyes last night I’ve not seen before, something dark. It scared me. Gone was the man who held me back from the fire and protected my stupidity. Gone was his care or comfort. He was replaced by something that looked blank, indifferent.

I stare into the fireplace and remember the smell of my burning home, the one I’d hardly set up yet. I’ve tried not to think about it. Tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, that perhaps it was an accident, but I know it wasn’t. Deep down I know it was Lewis or someone he sent. I wish I had tears left, but I don’t seem to be able to find any. I’m just lost and drifting with no sense of direction. Maybe I got rid of my tears yesterday or through the night. I don’t know, but it seems no matter how much I try to grieve for my lack of independence or think of how terrible it all is, I just can’t find the thoughts I need. I’m numb. It all seems distorted, as if nothing quite makes sense other than the fact that I know Lewis did this.

And he needs to pay.

At some point this morning, while I’ve been floundering around half dazed in this dressing gown, I’ve come to the realization that nothing will change if I go back to him. If anything, going back will make it worse. I was right to leave. I did the right thing by me and my future. It’s not like I haven’t been living in hell for the past few years anyway, terrified of every move I make. I might as well be terrified and on my own. At least I have some power that way, some small element of control to use going forward.

I can use that control. I can use it and focus on vengeance for the one friend I had to help me onwards. He took her from me. She’s gone, taken along with the house he destroyed. Killed.

All because of me.

Something’s switched inside me now, or maybe it happened overnight. I’m not sure. I spent the drive back here last night feeling emotional, scarcely holding in the need to fall into Jack’slap and cry my heart out. In fact, I probably would have if he hadn’t been so cold towards me. But this morning I don’t feel like that. I feel emotionally lifeless, and this blur in my mind only heightens that sensation, not really giving me anything to grab onto other than hatred for the man who did this.

My husband.

I might not be able to have him committed for rape anymore, and I might not have the evidence to have him hauled in front of the law courts for his previous behaviour like I originally planned before I chickened out. I might not even have the capacity to prove he did this to my house, to my friend, but I damn well have the ability to make him pay for his actions.

Death, presumably, is easy enough to achieve if you don’t care about repercussions.

If I go back to him, he’ll beat me again. If I try to hide, he’ll find me again. If I try to run, he’ll chase me again. There is nowhere to go other than to stand and face him. And I’ll do it with a gun in my hand this time. He’ll either back down or he’ll die. I don’t care which. I’ll either get caught, or I won’t. I don’t care about that either. He must pay for what he’s done. He will pay. His wealth, his father, his family—none of them will help him out of this one. I don’t even want to see him rotting in jail anymore. I want him dead, departed from the planet so I don’t have to think about him anymore. I want freedom, even if that comes with a jail sentence. I want sanity.

And I want revenge for Callie.

God, do I want that.

I circle the room I’m in, tracing my fingers over the furniture and collecting the dust that lingers on them. No one’s been in here for some time. It feels cold, motionless, still beautiful in its slightly dirty state, but unloved and disused.

Thick reams of powder lift off the surface of a sideboard as I draw the shape of a gun in the dust, swirling my finger to mimic smoke from the end. It’s peculiar to think of me doing such a thing, not normally my style at all. I used to be bubbly, a happy-go-lucky sort of girl. Lewis ruined that. Whatever changed in him when we moved here started the process of me becoming what I am today, and last night finished me off. There’s nothing left. No niceness, no anxiety, no thought of doing the right thing. There’s certainly no hope of me being happy and contented with white picket fences and quiet family streets. He’s taken that last shred of faith I had, burned it to the ground as if it was something to be scorned, scorched even.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps I was dreaming to ever think it was viable. I suppose I just hoped he’d leave me alone, realising the mistakes he’d made and giving me a chance at freedom. He clearly won’t.

“Why are you in here?”

The sound of Jack’s terse voice shocks me, making me spin to look at the door. He’s half naked, still in his trousers from last night but with no top on. I stare, barely acknowledging the skin on show. He’s flawless. Unadulterated. Toned, long. Skin the colour of honey and ripples goes on endlessly. It’s something I should notice, but at the moment it means nothing to me. I feel as empty as this room did minutes ago.

“I’m wandering,” I reply, gazing at his lips and waiting for whatever he’s got to be gruff about.

There are a few seconds like this. He looks back at me, flicking his eyes between my face and the old dressing gown I found hanging in my room. I wish I wasn’t losing myself in hazel eyes that frown insidiously, but I am. I’m willing that man from last night to keep coming at me. The darker the better as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps it’ll help engrain my new persona, make me strong enough to do what needs doing. My mind is so bare I feel incapable of anything other than honesty about who I am, what I want. What I’m becoming. Not that I quite know what that is yet, but that man who lingered over liquor can help me with that, the one who scared me as he smashed bottles. Perhaps if I can conquer the way he made me shake in fear then I’ll be ready to take my revenge. Be more prepared.

“You naked under there?” he says, nodding at the dressing gown.

“I don’t have much choice. No clothes available,” I mutter, tilting my head at him and breathing in husky morning masculinity. He grunts and leaves the room, the slight snarl developing on his mouth increasing whatever thoughts I’m having about underhand manhunts.