19
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Christopher Shaw's house
September 24, 2018
4:55 p.m.

THE BAG FEELS HEAVY on my back. It's as if Melody's painting is giving it a couple of more pounds, the lies and secrets and guilt accumulating inside of it, dragging me backwards. My body has become a safe haven for all the dark secrets that lurk in Levittown's dangerous atmosphere; it's a shelter for the confessions of the wicked.

Melody lives inside me through her letters, the words she desperately needed to say in life but preferred to reserve for death cementing themselves in my heart. And Logan with his chilling confession, the notion of what he did out of pure and unrelenting rage settling in my stomach, poisonous and dark. Then there's me, a body composed of images of that night and my horrible betrayal.

Let's have some fun. Forget about her. A kiss. Some bliss. It's done.

My feet pound against the sidewalk, lungs burning with each intake of air. My shoes scrape over the asphalt with each step I take, the raspy sound it produces coming in tune with my ragged breaths. The wind blows all around me, it slaps my skin the faster I run. The houses become blurry lines in my peripheral vision and the world goes out of focus. His house is not so far and yet it feels as if I'm running a marathon, running and running to get to the finish line. My impatient heart is beating hard and a tight, warm pain blossoms in my chest.

I'd tell myself that my body is reacting out of pain, but then I would be lying. It throbs for them, the components of my never-ending guilt.

The sizzling sun is behind me, its rays hot against the back of my neck and exposed shoulders. Sweat forms on the back of my neck in fat droplets that glide down until they reach the waistband of my jeans. My shadow is reflected in front of me, floating among the golden light that bathes the sidewalk. It's a black and distorted mass, morphing into strange shapes that don't embody my form at all.

As I look at its writhing movement, I can't help but think that shadows are the bearers of our dark sides. Our dark selves may need to be separated from us, kept in another reality, some other embodiment, a parallel dimension so as to not make of us sinister and evil beings. Maybe that's why it always follows us, innocent during the daylight and frightening during the obscurity of the night.

Maybe I'm just overthinking things.

I shudder and take my gaze away from my shadow. Christopher's house comes into view, a Cape Cod home with windows flanking the front door, dormer windows up top and cedar shingles. The sight of it makes my heart flutter. My body already knows he's in there somewhere, cooking something to ease his upset stomach or sleeping in until evening. It aches to see him, feel him, breathe him in -
my body is his and I wish his was mine only.

My steps come to an abrupt stop in front of his house, and I walk on the little pathway that leads to his front door. My shadow moves along to my left side, its distorted form twisting between the cement lines that create the beige tiles.

Mrs. Shaw comes out of the house with a box balanced between her hip and arm, spinning around to jam the door shut. Her dirty blonde hair is up in a ponytail, some loose strands hanging out of the pink rubber band. Short wispy strands stick up at random directions around her edges, crowning her head like a halo. The green jacket she's wearing over her diner's pink uniform billows out as she struggles to lock the door, her short breaths coming out as low grumbles.

"Hi," I say, my voice disappearing in the howling wind.

She flinches, the box almost falling to the floor. When her icy blue eyes land on me, a smile tightens on her tired face. "Alexa, hi."

We stand here awkwardly staring at each other, her smile growing more and more fake by the second. My mouth feels dry as I open it to say something, anything that'll make her look at me differently. Nothing comes, of course. The words get stuck in my throat, just like they always do when I try to talk to her. She just doesn't like me. Her expression reminds me of the one Wyatt gave me in the diner, as if he'd only heard bad things about me.

"I'm just heading out, but this damn door doesn't budge," she says, looking back at the door and huffing a loose strand out of her face. "Would you mind locking it from the inside?"

"Not at all."

"Thanks." She hands me a silver key and walks away without a second glance. "Christopher's in his room. It's the second door to your left when you climb the stairs."

"Thank" --the sound of an engine rumbling penetrates through the air and, before I know it, Mrs. Shaw is speeding down the road-- "you."

Definitely doesn't like me.

I take a deep breath - the smell of musky nicotine stagnant in the warm air - and head inside. As soon as I close the door behind me, the harsh smell of cigarette smoke is replaced by a gentle, ginger fragrance. My grip tightens around the silver key, its ridges imprinting themselves on the palm of my hand. The key is in the dead bolt, it twists, it locks - now I'm alone in this house with him. We're out of view, just the two of us.

The thought excites me. It shouldn't.

The stairs are pushed to the right side of the entrance hall, nuzzled close to a flower-papered wall. There are no pictures hanging on the walls, no mementos to let me know about Christopher's childhood, nothing that gives me the idea that someone actually lives here. Everything's just so... organized.

I throw the silver key on the small table that rests beside the door, its fall creating a sharp clanking noise, and climb the stairs with deliberate steps. My hand is on the wooden banister as I look up at the lonely second floor platform, my shoes making a soft thudding sound on the carpeted steps. My heart beats harder the closer I get - I can feel it pounding in my throat and hear it loud in my ears. The house is too still and quiet - it lacks a soul of its own, too perfect; too lonely.

Once I'm finally at the top of the stairs, I walk to my left and stop in front of his door. The second one to my left, the one with a poster that reads: 'Only God can judge me... and since he doesn't exist, I guess nobody can.' I press my ear against his door, my fingers spreading on it as if the combination of touch and hearing could make me see what's behind it. There's nothing, only silence. Peaceful, bothersome silence.

Maybe I made the wrong decision by coming to him first. His painting can wait, there are still others out there. He knows me too well, this wouldn't work. But my body... what do I do with this feeling that courses through it, the ache of needing to see him?

No, I need to fight it. I need to leave.

"You can come in, Alexa," he says behind the closed door, his voice sounding like a deep echo, so far away. "No need to hide this time."

I step away from the door, my heart leaping to my throat. How does he know that I'm here? I blink for several seconds - the door appearing to me in flashes - and slip inside his room. The door makes a clicking sound when it closes behind me, so I press my back against it, feeling the bulge of the bag pushing my body forward.

Christopher is by the window with a cigarette between his teeth, the smoke billowing around him in gray clouds. That's how he knew I was here - he saw me, he always does. He's bent over the windowsill, his head poking outside while the window doors hang on either side of him. The sun is reflected on his dirty blonde hair, making it look golden and honey-like. But his hair isn't what captures my attention, it's his naked torso.

Some black jeans hang low on his hips, and I can't help but wonder what hides underneath it all. The muscles on his back tense with each of his movements, his strong arms flexing as he feels me inside, naturally. His body reacts to me as mine does to him.

His eyes are on me now, so penetrating and unapologetically blue. They always find me across the room, no matter if it's crowded or deserted. He rests his elbow on the windowsill, supporting his whole body on it, and takes a long drag from his cigarette. My eyes wander to his naked chest, stomach, hips. I gulp, knowing well that he notices the dirty thoughts that cross my mind as I lay my eyes on him. Always him.

"I'm not here for that," I say, my voice small.

His small lips curve up into a smirk. "You sure?"

My teeth sink hard on my lower lip, eyes traveling to anywhere that's not him. There's a wooden bureau beside the open window, a small closet right next to me, his full-size bed pushed against the far away wall. There are clothes and comics scattered around the floor, some on top of his bed. This might me the only room in this entire house that has some personality. I know that someone actually lives here.

"Can I sit on the bed?"

"Go for it," he says, his eyes following me as I drop my bag to the floor and walk to the bed. "Are you here to do homework or something?"

"No, I..." I pause to look at him as he takes another drag, his cheeks hollowing from the effort. "You smoke with your mom in the house?"

He shrugs. "She doesn't care," he mumbles, looking down at my covered breasts. Force of habit never dies.

I guess Melody was right - my breasts are big enough to be noticed under a shirt that has no cleavage.

"Are you gonna tell me why you're here or what?"

My eyes wander to his naked torso again. I can feel the beating of his heart against the palm of my hand, the softness of his skin in the tip of my fingers, my pulse uniting with his own as our chests collide. I feel him, but he's a short distance away.

"I, um..."

He puts the cigarette out on the windowsill and throws it outside. The distance that separates us is closed when he walks toward the bed, stopping in front of me. "Do you want me to put a shirt on?"

My eyes travel from his strong stomach to his sculpted chest, ending on his intense blue eyes. "Please?"

He chuckles as he walks toward the bureau and yanks a drawer open to look for a shirt. Once he finds some old black t-shirt, he pulls it over his head and covers his beautiful body. Suddenly, I can breathe again.

"Done," he says, smiling wide.

He walks over to me again, his forefinger and thumb grabbing my chin, tilting it up. "Do you regret what happened?"

I want to tell him that I don't regret a thing, but the words get stuck in my throat. They accumulate in it, disappearing when they don't find a voice to utter their simple request. It's as if my body can't say them without thinking about what happened after, the terrible thing that I did. My silence is deafening.

His smile fades, eyes dimming when the realization hits him. "Fuck, you do," he whispers, massaging my chin with his thumb. "I think about it all the time. I think about you all the time."

My heart beats wildly against my chest, his words settling in my mind. I think about him all the time, too.

"I don't regret what happened," I whisper, placing my hand on his. "I regret what happened after."

"Do you think it's our fault?" He takes his hand away from my chin, away from my grasp, his fingers passing smoothly on the palm of my hand. "What we did. What I did. What you said..."

A sigh escapes my lips, long and tired. "I honestly don't know. I'm starting to believe that we're all to blame somehow."

Our mutual silence gives us the answer to that hidden question. The tension growing inside this room is thick, but not uncomfortable. We're too familiarized with each other to ever be bothered by the other's presence, so we stare at one another and that's enough to understand.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, sure." He stiffens. "Shoot."

"Mrs. Tryniski gave you a painting, right?"

He arches an eyebrow, clearly knowing what I'm talking about, but not understanding its relevance to our previous conversation.

"Yeah, yeah. Something that Melody left for me," he says, staring at the ceiling. "It's weird. I wouldn't say that we didn't get along, but we weren't exactly friends either."

I frown, thinking about the way she danced against him at Sebastián's party. They seemed really close back then, enough to make me sick. Now Melody's dead and nothing makes me sicker than not having her here, alive and well.

"What about it, though?"

"Well, I went to see her a couple of days ago and she t-told me she gave you the w-wrong p-painting." I clear my throat, casting my gaze to the floor.

Why can't I lie to him properly?

"She gave me the wrong painting," he says, echoing my words to see how the lie tastes in his mouth. His eyes squint a little as he looks at me closely. "Weren't there some post-it notes on them or some shit like that?"

Shit.

"I don't know," I mumble, clearing my dry throat. "I was wondering if maybe we can swap paintings? You give me the one you have in exchange for the real one."

His eyebrows shoot up, bottom lip trapped between two of his fingers. "You want the painting."

"Yeah... for Mrs. T."

"You have the real one here?" he says, emphasizing on the word 'real' with an almost suspicious tone.

"Yeah, it's in my bag," I mumble, pointing to where it's at with my chin.

He nods, pulling the bag up and taking out the painting. The piece consists of a pastel picture of the riverbank during a hot, summer morning. The crystal water is seen coursing through its normal route, reflecting the glint of the sun with golden streaks. The gentle sky is a stranger to clouds, it almost seems like it's reflecting the riverbank, rather than the riverbank being its mirror. Green grass covers the edge of the riverbank, accentuating the different shades of blue that make the whole painting calm. You can tell that she was alone when creating it, the frame too tranquil and the drawing so precise, as if she had all the time in the world to do it. No interruptions.

Christopher laughs. "Melody would never leave me something like this. The one I have made more sense," he says, taking his eyes away from the painting. "Why are you lying to me?"

My eyebrows knit together, my pathetic attempt to look confused. "I'm not."

"You're lying to me. I know you better than you know yourself, Alexa," he mutters, the swirl of emotions that's always in his eyes settling to a simple gloss. He's hurt. "We don't lie to each other."

"I told you, Christopher, Mrs. T gave you the wrong one." My voice wavers and he notices. He always does.

He walks toward me so fast that I don't have the time to react. His large hands are now sinking on the mattress, placed on either side of my hips. He lowers his torso, his face leveled with mine, and I can just imagine the thoughts that cross his mind by simply looking at his intense eyes.

"Tell me why you want this painting so bad," he whispers, inching closer to my face. "I'm not gonna give it to you if you don't."

The truth is on the tip of my tongue, ready to set loose in command to his words. It's like crying, really. Once someone asks you what's wrong, you begin to cry and the words slip out of your mouth with ease - your body finally finding its release. I'm tired of keeping everything in. It just continues to fill and grow, making of me a safe haven for the wicked. The secrets and guilt whirl around in my head at the same time, making it pound and pound until it forms into a warm ache.

As I look into Christopher's honest eyes, I know. We share the same guilt. My mouth opens and, for the first time, everything that comes out of it is the complete truth. My chest caves in with every sentence that's been weighting on me for the past couple of weeks, their dark nature now weighting on him. Now we share this secret, too. But, as I blurt everything out, his expression grows more and more terrified; out of color.

I still feel light, though. I'm drunk with this feeling of freedom. My chest heaves in excitement because, for a single moment, it can be free from the prison of my guilt.

"You shouldn't have told me," he whispers, backing away slowly.

"What?" I say, frowning. "You told me to-"

"You should've lied, Alexa," he shouts, making me flinch.

He paces through the room, his bare feet slapping against the tile floor. Slap, slap, slap. That's all I can hear as he paces from one side of the room to the other, his eyes wide with horror. He runs his fingers through his hair, the blonde strands disheveled, poking at random directions.

"You lie to me so good, baby, with enough truth so it would sound believable," he mumbles, soft, gentle, sweet. "Just like we lie to the police and your father and our friends and the whole fucking town."

Baby. There's an aggressive fluttering in my stomach, an aggressive nature in the way my heart is beating right now.

"You're acting crazy," I mumble, timidly looking up at him.

"So, she wrote these letters to play fucking mind games, instead of telling you straightforward who the fucker is?"

"She couldn't possibly know I would be the one to find them," I say, my eyes darting to his every move.

He arches an eyebrow, stopping for a moment in the middle of the room. "And she's threatening you. That's fucking sick."

My heart sinks.

He continues with his dizzy pacing, the turns he takes and the lengths he walks resembling what must be going through his mind - complete confusion.

"If you have a painting and I have one, it means that more people have them," he mumbles, more to himself than anything. It's like I'm not in the room anymore.

"That's why I'm here," I say, trying to capture his attention. "I went to Seb-"

"No, don't tell me who has the paintings," he shouts, practically begging.

You're in danger if you share this information with ANYONE. My stomach churns and grumbles, the nausea revolving around it, ready to come out. Am I in danger now?

"What did you do?" I whisper, sitting up straighter. "Christopher, what did you do?"

When he turns his face toward me, I notice how it's chalk white. The color has drained from it. The blue of his eyes fades into a celeste transparency, inviting me to the horrible truth that hides in his everyday protective armor. I've never seen him so horrified, but then again, I haven't seen much emotions from him other than happiness and lust. He's always so cool and composed. Seeing him vulnerable only makes me like him more; want him more. Love him more.

"I said some pretty nasty things to Melody at the party."

"What things?"

What can be worse than what we did after?

"She said some things about you... about me," he says, blinking back the tears. "She really knew how to get under my skin. It doesn't matter now."

To be fair, she knew how to get under everyone's skin. That was one of her many talents. But what could she possibly have said to Christopher to get him all worked up?

"We have to tell the cops," he says, his voice firm.

His words hang heavy in the air, creating an imaginary boundary between us.

"No, are you insane?"

He kneels in front of me, putting his head between my thighs and gripping the excess fat on my hips for support. His gaze moves up to my eyes, so blue and raw. "What do I do? What do I tell them? Fuck, you shouldn't have told me."

His eyes look like two cerulean crystals, glassy and icy, ready to crack and break into millions of tears.

"Listen to me, Christopher," I mumble, grabbing his chin and passing my other hand through his hair. "You lie."

It's not so difficult. I give him the same advice he gave me after she disappeared. He nods, as if hypnotized by my words.

"Where do we go from here?" he says, his expression hardening. He understands what's hidden in my words, our mutual agreement.

His moment of panic passes.

"We?" I arch an eyebrow, my gaze following him to his bureau. "You're not getting involved in this. It's too dangerous."

He gives me a pointed look as he searches for something in his second drawer, a smile growing on his lips. "You're delirious if you think I'm gonna let you do this alone." He takes out the painting, the one with the letter. "I'm here whether you like it or not."

I nod, as if hypnotized myself.

"There's a letter in this?" he mumbles, looking at the piece with a dubious expression. "We should read it together."

He hands me the painting, but it looks nothing like the others. It's just a canvas drenched in dark brown paint, no altering shades, no effort put to it whatsoever.

"Are you sure this is the one?"

"Yup," he mumbles, looking at it with equal confusion. "At least, that's what Mrs. T brought."

There's no time to question the weirdness of this piece. Mrs. Tryniski already told me that she gave one to Christopher; that Melody left one for him.

"Pass me a pair of scissors."

After doing the arduous task of cutting through the thin sheet of wool and taking out the letter, I clutch the envelope hard and let out a small breath.

From: me

To: you

"Nobody can know about this," I mumble, looking at Christopher, who's now sitting by my side. "Can I trust you?"

He takes my index and middle finger to draw the cross on his chest, pulling them up to his lips and kissing them once he's finished. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

•Word count: 3,908•

I love this chapter and I loved every second it took me to write it! This is one of the moments I had planned since I had all the characters fleshed out on my creative notebook, personality descriptions and secrets and importance already written. So, since before I wrote the first chapter. Yikes!

So, it's safe to say that this was always meant to happen. I'm just glad that I finally put this scene to words on paper.

Was this chapter surprising? What do you think is going to happen next? Any theories yet? What do you think happened the night of Melody's disappearance AND the night she was killed? Are we liking this new partnership? Do you trust Christopher? 🔍👀

Feel free to correct any grammatical errors, but be kind about it. Tell me what you think of this chapter.

If you like the chapter:

vote, comment, share.

Show me love ♡ Next chapter out soon.