Page 26 of Hex House
One of his hands had been braced on the bed between them, as if he were trying to make a bridge. Now, both fall into his lap, useless. “I’m sorry.”
It doesn’t feel as good to hear the words as she’d hoped it would. Because of course, it’s not Owen she needs to hear them from. Siobhan sags back against the headboard, shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes and swims in the fuzzy blackness behind her eyelids before opening them again.
“There’s a girl in your Documentary class,” she says. “Sylvie Fournier.”
A pause. “That’s right. You know Sylvie?” She can hear the caution in his voice, the trepidation.
“What do you think of her?”
“She’s… nice, I suppose? Attentive. A good eye.”
“So, you think she’s talented?”
“What is this about?”
“Just answer the question.”
Owen repositions his weight on the bed. He’s no longer meeting her eye. “Yes, Siobhan,” he says with a sigh. “I do think she’s talented, actually. Why?”
Siobhan wraps her arms tightly around herself, probing the gaps between ribs with her thumbs. Her scar is throbbing, as if being looked at woke it up. She can’t think of a single place in the world she wants to be.
“Shall I bring you some food?” Owen asks, more softly now.
Siobhan doesn’t know whether she’s hungry or not. She only feels tired. She peels back his duvet so she can slip underneath, and the sheets are deliciously cool against her skin. “Okay,” she mumbles. “And some wine.”
When he’s gone to the kitchen, she presses her face into his pillow and inhales deeply, taking in the simple scent of him: soap and scalp. She feels like she should probably cry, like it would help release some of the pressure between her ears. Instead, she lies face down, smothers her face with the pillow, and lets out a long, silent scream.
THEN
Elly stays in the shower for longer than she needs to, until the skin at her fingertips begins to wrinkle and her focus blurs. The house’s shared bathrooms are in a high-ceilinged room with walls of old stone. Inside are a row of stalls, the cisterns ancient and clanking, and a freestanding bath in the corner. It must have been grand once, but the porcelain is cracked now, the brass feet tarnished. The indi vidual shower cubicles are newer, with opaque glass doors and slate tiles, but still, the water splutters irregularly from the showerhead, icy one minute and burning the next. Elly barely notices. She runs a solid bar of soap slowly over her skin, filling the air with sweet orange and the bite of sage.
When she comes out, she finds Siobhan standing by the sinks, rubbing lotion into her skin. The oval mirrors are steamed, dripping with condensation, and the air around her dances with moisture. Siobhan is wearing a dressinggown, wet hair swept up and off her face by a towel. Her face is free from make-up, and she looks younger than usual, a little softer.
“Hey,” she says when she sees Elly. She grins as confidently as someone wearing a sleek suit rather than a thin towel. “Have you seen this?”
She gestures to the floor, which is covered by an inch of water. One of the pipes running into the sinks has burst and is leaking all over the tiles.
“This place is a health and safety hazard,” Siobhan is saying. “Last night I put a foot through a floorboard in our room. Don’t think Haina’s ever heard of redecorating.”
Elly frowns. She’s experienced similar things in the house – doorknobs coming off in her hand, chairs wobbling dangerously underneath her – but in the face of Siobhan’s criticism, she finds herself wanting to defend it. She wonders if Siobhan knows the truth about the house yet, what happens to the guests behind the closed door of the study, and hopes she doesn’t. “Haina’s doing her best,” she says. “It’s an old house.”
Siobhan shrugs, kicking up the water like a child in a puddle. Elly’s making her way out of the door when Siobhan says, “Wait.” She peers at Elly strangely, with a little too much intensity. “I recognise you.”
Elly’s hair is wet and cold around her shoulders. She shudders. “I’m sorry?”
Siobhan bites her lip and tilts her head to the side, then lets out a little laugh, clicking her fingers. “God, it’s you. You’ve been all over the news.” She watches Elly’s face carefully. “But obviously you wouldn’t know that.”
Elly feels as though someone has knocked the windout of her, stolen the air right out of her lungs. “No,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t know that.”
“Elly Carmichael, isn’t it? Yeah, I’ve seen you. I mean, I guess you’re lucky that people care enough to look for you – I don’t think it’s the same for everyone here. But, man, you’re everywhere.Much-loved pregnant wife and baker, went missing on her wedding night. Hollywood stuff. Your husband’s giving loads of interviews, appeals and shit. Crying in every single one. He gives me the creeps a bit, to be honest. If you weren’t standing right in front of me, I’d probably think he was involved. No offence.” She whistles, looking at Elly from head to toe, as if she can’t quite believe that she’s real. “Holy shit. You’ve just beenherethe whole time, and they can’t find you. How is that even possible?”
Elly swallows. She can’t take in anything Siobhan is saying, nothing after,I guess you’re lucky that people care enough to look for you. She pictures her face on the news. She wonders which photo they would have used but doesn’t know why that matters.
Ethan. Ethan is looking for her. She’d known he would be, but to have it confirmed makes her eyes burn.
She thinks back to a morning in his flat, a few months ago now. He’d made an espresso then climbed back into bed with her, head nestled between her shoulder and chin. He smelled of coffee and shampoo, of potential, of the day starting. She’d only just started to feel the baby move at that point, each kick was still a surprise, and she’d reached over to grab his hand and hold it to her bare stomach. She’ll never forget how his face looked when the baby kicked under his hand – so vulnerable, broken wide open with hope. She’s taken so much from him, she thinks now,standing in the bathroom doorway. How could she have taken so much from him?
“You alright?” Siobhan asks.
