Under Her Care(11)
FIVE
GENEVIEVE HILL
“I don’t care if you’re tired; we’re doing your exercises tonight,” I snap at Mason as I pull his left arm back and bring it over his head. I’m tired, too, but you don’t hear me complaining. He grunts in protest as I hold the pose for another twenty count. All I want to do is sit down. Having help would be so nice. Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve hired all of them, but they don’t train people like they used to, and everyone’s so lazy these days. Plus, nobody ever really listened to my instructions, and there was no consistency between workers. I always ended up doing everything over again anyways, so I gave up. Figured, what was the point?
“I’m sorry I’m so snappy tonight, honey.” I rub his shoulder with my other hand, working the lotion into his sore muscles. They’re tighter than usual. “Mama is just scared. There’s a lot happening. I’m under a lot of stress right now, but it’s going to be okay.”
He ignores me. His eyes are glued to the iPad on his lap as he plays his favorite Blue’s Clues episode. I could recite every line by heart, seeing as we’ve watched it over a hundred times. He’s way over his screen time limit today, but one day can’t hurt him that much, can it? Some people let their kids sit on games all day long and don’t even care. At least I’m not one of those parents.
“Mama loves you.” I kiss the top of his head. His hair is still damp from his bath. I love the smell of it clean. “There. Done.” I bring his other arm down to rest on his lap. “One more show before it’s time to read and then bed, understand, mister?”
He doesn’t look up as I head out of his bedroom and downstairs. He’ll be fine for at least another fifteen minutes. I grab my glass of wine from on top of the refrigerator. I poured it before we went upstairs so it’d be ready and waiting when I came down. I sip on the way to John’s office. He hasn’t been in his office in over six years, but I still think of it as his.
His study is big—much larger than mine—with bay windows overlooking the garden. Built-ins line two walls filled with all his books. His mahogany-colored desk is the commanding piece in the center of the room. It’s bulky and awkward, but he insisted on having it. All his favorite things are still on top. The blue antique-style lamp. His piles of paper. The open stapler that he was in the middle of refilling but never finished. It’s all untouched.
My daughter, Savannah, thinks it’s morbid. Like I’m keeping some weird shrine for him and I should redecorate the room, but I refuse. She says it’s creepy and that it’s long past due for me to move on, but she’s just like every other nineteen-year-old girl who thinks she’s a grown woman—she doesn’t know anything. But she thinks she does, just like I did when I was her age.
I take another big drink, then set the glass on John’s desk and slide open the doors on the entertainment center on the back wall with both hands. It’s huge and outdated, just like the flat-screen TV behind it. I grab the remote and press power. The hardest thing about the security system is this stupid remote, and if you screw it up, you can easily get locked out. Happened to me twice. I switch the aux to the right input, and six small screens fill the larger one. I stand close, eyeing each one for any sign of movement. I sweep along with the cameras from our driveway to the pool in the backyard and over to the side of the house, then back to the front of the house and around the garage.
Everything is in its place, but I don’t trust these cameras. The images are too dark and grainy. It’s so hard to see in some spots. What about behind the trash cans? Is that movement? I squint and lean closer, practically touching the screen. It’s nothing. Only a shadow. I need better cameras. This system is old. I never cared before. Now I do.
Just like I used to not care about the security code for the gun cabinet in the back of our closet in the master bedroom. John had his guns, and I had mine. His favorites were his .357 and an old Smith & Wesson that belonged to his grandfather. He was always adding to his collection, switching and upgrading, but I’ve had the same one since I was sixteen. A pretty pink pistol with a special grip that my daddy gave me on my birthday. Most girls my age got their first car for their sweet sixteen, but my daddy was special that way. John told me the digits for the cabinet years ago, but I never wrote them down, and I can’t find them anywhere in his office. The last time we talked about the guns was a few years before he died, when cars were getting broken into all over the city. He pulled out his Magnum and asked if he should sleep with it underneath his pillow. I laughed at him. Told him he was being paranoid. And he was.
But I’m not.
He’s out there.
Somewhere. That Monster that killed Annabelle. Mason and I call him that because that’s what he is. A filthy animal. A savage beast. My blood boils every time I think about him. It’s a combination of terror and rage. A blinding fury I’ve never felt before, and it sucks all the air from my lungs whenever it hits.
Is he watching us? Seeing what we’re doing? Who we’re talking to? Does he know we were at the police station again today? I wish we were still there. That’s where I feel the safest. It’s the only place he can’t hurt us. Not when they have guns. I couldn’t stop staring at Gunner’s slung on his hip when he brought me into the conference room. All I wanted to do was grab it.