Chapter 2 - The House on the Ridge
The drive was silent. Lily fell asleep within five minutes of the heater warming the interior of the middle Suburban, her head heavy against my shoulder, her fingers still loosely hooked into my collar. Damon sat across from me in the custom leather passenger cabin, his face obscured by the passing streetlights of the city. He didn't speak. He didn't look at his phone. He simply watched the window, his hand resting on his knee, his fingers occasionally tapping a slow, rhythmic pattern that looked like a countdown.
We left the city behind, heading north along the lake. The buildings grew shorter, the trees thicker, until the road became a winding ribbon of black asphalt bordered by high stone walls and wrought-iron gates.
We pulled through a set of massive gates that opened automatically at our approach. The tires crunched over crushed gravel, winding up a long, steep driveway lined with ancient oaks that looked like frozen skeletons in the headlights. At the top of the ridge sat the house. It was a massive, modern fortress of gray granite and dark glass, positioned to look out over the black, restless expanse of Lake Michigan. It looked less like a home and more like a high-end museum or a very expensive bunker.
The door was opened by a woman in her fifties with grey hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the skin of her temples smooth. She wore a dark, simple dress and had a face that suggested she hadn't smiled since the late nineties.
"This is Mrs. Gable," Damon said as we stepped into the warm, cavernous foyer. The floor was white marble, reflecting the cold light of a minimalist light fixture hanging from the three-story ceiling. "She runs the house. She will show you to the nursery."
"I told you, I have a home," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "I have a roommate. I have classes tomorrow morning at nine."
Damon stopped and turned to face me. He took off his heavy overcoat, revealing the broad line of his shoulders and the dark leather holster tucked beneath his left arm. He didn't look like a man who was used to explaining himself, but there was a strange, heavy patience in his eyes now.
"Your roommate has already been notified that you are staying here tonight," he said. "Your classes have been deferred. You will receive full credit for the semester, and your tuition has been paid in full."
My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. "How do you know where I go to school? How do you know about Sloan?"
"I know everything about you, Natalie," Damon said, his voice flat. "I knew your GPA before we reached the highway. I know you've lived in Chicago for three years. I know your mother died of cancer when you were twelve, and your father left before you were born. I know you have zero criminal history, three hundred dollars in credit card debt, and a habit of volunteering at the community center on weekends."
I felt a sudden, sharp spike of anger. "You investigated me? In forty minutes?"
"In twenty," Damon corrected. "I don't bring people into my house without knowing who they are. Especially not people my daughter calls 'Mama.'"
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "The last woman she called that died six months ago in a car that wasn't hers. Since then, Lily has not made a single sound. She hasn't cried. She hasn't laughed. She hasn't spoken. If she speaks to you, you stay. It is not an option."
He turned to Mrs. Gable. "Take them up."
The nursery was on the second floor, down a long hallway lined with abstract paintings that looked like bruises. The room itself was enormous, filled with expensive wooden toys that looked like they had never been played with, a crib that could have housed a small family of deer, and a large window looking out over the dark lake.
I laid Lily down on the thick, organic cotton mattress. She stirred, her little brow furrowing, her lips parting as if she were about to cry.
"Shh," I whispered, sitting on the edge of the crib and running my fingers through her damp, dark curls. "I'm here. It's okay."
Her eyes fluttered open for a second, catching the dim light of the hallway. She saw me, her breathing slowed, and she closed her eyes again, her thumb slipping into her mouth.
"She likes you," Mrs. Gable said from the doorway. Her voice was less severe than her face, carrying a faint Irish lilt that had been worn down by years in the Midwest.
"She's lonely," I said, not looking up. "And she's scared. This room is too big. It feels like a gallery, not a bedroom."
Mrs. Gable didn't argue. She walked over to a built-in wardrobe and pulled out a stack of clothes. "These are yours. Simple things. I had them brought in from a local shop. There's an adjoining room for you through that door. It has its own bath."
She paused, her hand lingering on the handle of the wardrobe. "Mr. Cross is not a bad man, Natalie. But he is a man with many enemies. And his daughter is the only thing he has left in this world that isn't stained."
"Is that why she doesn't speak?" I asked. "Because of the stain?"
Mrs. Gable looked at me for a long moment, her eyes dark with secrets she wasn't paid to share. "She doesn't speak because she was in the car when her mother died," she said quietly. "She sat in the backseat for three hours before the police found them. The radio was still playing. And her mother was... well. You don't need the details to know why a child might choose silence."
May you like
The door closed softly behind her, leaving me alone with the quiet breathing of the little girl who had chosen me out of a city of millions.
I walked to the window, looking out at the black water of the lake. The snow had started again, heavy and silent, covering the gravel driveway and the stone walls until the world looked completely clean. But I knew better. Under the snow, the dirt was still there. And under this house, there were things that could kill you if you stayed too long.
