Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
Get on with what? My heart is hammering. Whatever is going on in there is bad. I know it.
“Daddy?” I ask in a whisper, my hand moving to the doorknob.
I should knock. It’s a rule that I knock. But I turn the knob and slowly push the door open. I see my father’s face for just a millisecond. See the surprise and panic in his wet eyes.
But then someone steps between us.
A man.
My heart beats so hard against my chest I can hear it in my ears. I’m frozen. I should run. I should go back to my room, get back into my bed, and pretend to be sleeping.
But then he steps out into the hallway, into the little bit of light coming in from the streetlamp outside. I stare up at him as he pulls the door closed.
Looking me over, he tucks something into the back of his pants and cocks his head to the side.
“Cristina,” he says.
I’m relieved it’s not the one who was speaking earlier. This man’s voice is different. Although he says my name like he knows me, not like it’s a question. But I don’t know him.
I hug Sofia.
“Where’s Lisa?” I ask.
“Lisa?”
“My nanny.”
“Oh, right. She took the night off.”
“My dad—”
“Is in a meeting. What are you doing out of your bed? It’s late. Little girls should be sleeping.”
I swallow. “I’m thirsty,” I lie because I don’t want to tell him I’m scared.
“Ah.” He smiles, but even in this shadow, I can see it’s not a real smile. “Let’s get you a glass of water, then.”
He extends his hand for me to take, turning his palm up.
I look at it and have to cover my mouth, but not fast enough to hide my gasp. I stare at it for a long time before shifting my gaze back up to his.
He’s watching me and I get the feeling he wants me to see. Even in this dull light, I can make out a hardness in his gray eyes and I don’t want to put my hand in his. I’ve been warned against strangers, but that’s not it.
I look down again at the bumpy skin of his hand. At least half of it is like that. Like a patchwork. The rest is smooth. Normal.
“It’s rude to stare, Cristina.”
I glance up at him, opening my mouth to apologize, but a raised voice from beyond the closed door distracts me.
Before I can ask what’s happening, before I can barge into my father’s study and stop whatever it is, the stranger with the grotesque hand speaks.
“Who’s that?” he asks, his tone lighter than a moment ago.
Confused, I look at where he’s pointing.
“Sofia.”
He crouches down, and I look at his dark head as he takes Sofia from my hand to study her.
“She looks thirsty, too,” he says, smiling that not-real smile again. I decide I don’t like how he’s holding Sofia by her ears in his damaged hand.
He straightens, adjusts the jacket of his suit, and returns her to me.
“Let’s go get you a glass of water so you can go back to bed.”
“What’s happening inside?”
He studies me thoughtfully with his strange almost silvery eyes. Eyes like a wolf. He bows his head a little and exhales.
“Nothing for little girls to see.”
We stare at each other for a minute, and there’s a flicker of something almost gentle in his voice. Almost like pity.
I know pity because it’s how all the teachers at school look at me ever since the accident. I hate that look, but with him, it’s just a flicker. It’s replaced almost instantly by something hard and cold.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask him.
“Fire,” he says curtly. “Let’s go.”
I place my hand inside his because I don’t know what else to do. When he closes it around mine, it swallows mine up. I can feel the bumps on his skin and try to pull away, but he tightens his grip and doesn’t let go.
We walk toward the kitchen, and I’m not sure if he’s leading me or I’m leading him.
“Sofia isn’t thirsty. She’s a stuffed animal,” I tell him.
He glances down at me and nods, face closed off like he’s distracted.
Once we’re in the kitchen, I point at a high cabinet I can’t reach. “Glasses are in there.”
He opens it, takes out a tall glass, and fills it with water from the tap. He hands it to me.
I take a sip and hand it back.
Wordlessly, he sets it on the counter, then takes my hand again and begins to lead me out of the kitchen, but I stop him.
“Did it hurt? Your hand?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it hurt.”
“You have no idea how much.” He begins to walk me out of the kitchen and away from my father’s study, away from the noise there and up the stairs to my room. He seems to know exactly where that is, too, just like the kitchen.