Shelter(52)

“I’m still not sure my parents are actually going to sell. I feel like this is something they could change their minds about at any time.”

She lowers her camera, drawing her lips into a thin smile. “Of course. It’s a very big decision. But we might as well finish looking around since I’m here. Can I see the upstairs now?”

Kyung leads her through the kitchen and up the old servants’ staircase, ducking to avoid the low, angled ceiling as they wind their way to the second floor. He opens the doors for Gertie in the order they pass them—study, guest room, guest room, bathroom—unintentionally saving the master bedroom for the end of their tour. Mae cleaned this room herself, rejecting his repeated offers to help. Although he didn’t understand her insistence, he was almost grateful for it. He’d never seen where his parents slept before the attack, and he had no desire to see it afterward. He pushes the door open and stands by to let Gertie pass. The bedroom is large and square, sparsely decorated compared to the rest of the house. The air is musty, but light streams in through the lace-covered windows, brightening the pale green walls, which makes the room seem less forbidding than he imagined it. He steps inside, relieved to find everything neat and clean, absent of any reminders of what happened here.

“This is a big master bedroom,” Gertie says. “It’s not common for a house this age.”

“I think it used to be two rooms once.”

“But your parents sleep in twin beds. If they do decide to sell, you might want to consider moving these out and getting a cheap king-size one instead.”

“Why?”

“It’s just a generational thing. Younger buyers have to imagine themselves actually living here. They’re not going to be able to with these.”

The matching twin beds are made of dark black wood, each with a four-poster frame. Gertie runs her hand down the length of a post, leading Kyung’s eyes to a cluster of scratches near the mattress before she moves on to the adjoining bathroom.

“Any idea when the plumbing was last updated?” Her voice echoes off the cavernous tile walls.

The information is right there on his sheet of paper, but Kyung can’t read it out loud. He’s petrified, shaking as if the temperature has just plummeted. He sees the room as it was that day, with Marina tied to one bed and Mae on the other. He sees their hands gripping the posts, their fingernails turning white and digging into the wood, clawing at it like animals when Nat Perry climbs on top of them. He flinches at the thought of each slap and punch, at the look on Mae’s face as Perry presses his thumbs into her throat. His piece of paper drops to the floor, but he leaves his empty hand extended.

“Plumbing updates?” Gertie asks, popping her head out the bathroom door.

Kyung sits down on the rug and covers his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you sick?” She kneels down beside him. “Do you need a doctor?”

When he doesn’t respond, Gertie opens her purse and rummages through the compartments. “I’m calling 911.”

“No, don’t.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

He needs to pull himself together. He has to. But when his eyes are open, blurry with tears, he sees the room. And when his eyes are closed, he sees what happened here. All he wants to do is cut them out.

“Please say something. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Jesus,” he shouts. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”

“What?”

“My parents were attacked here. My mother was—raped here.”

Gertie blinks as she looks around the room. Then she folds her arms over her chest as if she feels the same sudden cold that he does. “Didn’t someone die in this house?”

He nods.

“I heard about a home invasion in this area. I had no idea—”

“It was here.” He punches the bed frame. “Right here.”

He punches it again, harder this time, hearing the strong, sturdy sound of bone against wood. The pain travels up his arm, spreading deep into his shoulder, and he welcomes it, the complete inability to feel anything else. Gertie tries to pull him back, but not before he lands three more blows that crack the thick black veneer.

“Let’s go,” Gertie pleads. “Let’s go now.”

She helps him up and leads him to the kitchen, where he collapses in a chair, too stunned to speak or move. Kyung has never hit anything before—not an object, not a person—and he’s horrified for acting this way, for giving in to the impulse and liking the result. He wishes that Gertie would leave now, but it’s obvious she doesn’t intend to just yet. Although his back is to her, he can tell what she’s doing. Running the faucet, opening the cabinets, cracking ice from a tray into the sink.

She returns with a plastic bag wrapped in a towel. “Here. This might help.”

Two of Kyung’s knuckles are dark red. The one in the middle has already started to swell, rising high above the skin like a knot in a tree. The ice pack stings when she lays it over his hand, but he leaves it there, the pulsing blood fighting the numbing cold.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely.

He looks up at her, and she does her best to smile, but her face is the color of chalk.