Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(14)

No answer.

I pressed the button again.

“No one’s home, Brinley. Let’s go.” Rebecca crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself tightly, but she still trembled.

It was then that I heard his voice. “What?” he growled through the speaker.

“Um . . . delivery,” I said, my voice cracking. If I revealed my true identity, he’d never let us upstairs. And I was not giving up. Not yet.

“Fine, whatever.”

Buzzz.

Immediately I covered my ears at the dreadful sound. When it finally stopped, I waited for the door to swing open. When it didn’t, I pressed the button again.

“Open the door while it’s buzzing, would ya?”

The irritation in his voice pierced through me and I was mortified. I’d never visited an apartment building before. I had no idea that I was supposed to pull on the door while the intercom made that dreadful sound.

“I-I’m sorry,” I said.

Buzzz.

This time I grabbed the door, finding it unlocked. I glanced back at Rebecca, whose expression remained apprehensive, her fingers still quivering as they rested on her arms.

We climbed the steps of the dingy building, the smell of coffee and pastries hovering in the air. I took a deep breath, enjoying the aroma, wondering what it must be like to enjoy that smell each day. It was a pleasant distraction from the fear that I’d suppressed in my belly.

I knew Porter Hammond wouldn’t hurt me. I knew that in my gut.

But I didn’t know what he’d say, or if he’d even talk to me once he recognized my familiar hairstyle, my old-fashioned garb, and my plain face. Once he knew who I was and that I’d returned to claim what was mine.

When we reached the third floor, his door was left open. My hands shook in trepidation as we approached. I inhaled deeply, attempting to rekindle the bravery I had felt when I pressed the button to his apartment outside the building.

“Leave it on the mat,” he called from inside the apartment. “I’m a little busy.”

“Let’s go,” whispered Rebecca.

“You can stay here if you like,” I said, “but I must go in.”

I stepped onto the welcome mat at the entrance to the apartment. I couldn’t see Porter, but I had a decent view of the living area of the apartment. Sleeping bags were piled into the corner of the bleak room, and a tattered blue couch held several blankets and pillows. A large television set blasted from the living area.

Pots and pans banged in the kitchen, which was to my left. I couldn’t see past the confines of the entranceway, but knew that was where Porter must be.

My lungs heaved as I rounded the corner. Porter was standing over the sink, his hands submerged in suds, a black-and-white apron tied around his waist. If I weren’t so anxious, I would have giggled at his appearance. Men in our compound didn’t assist in the kitchen, or wear aprons, or clean. To me, he looked silly working in the kitchen. That was a woman’s place.

He must have caught me in his peripheral vision because he did a double take, his eyes as round as the pans in his hands. When he dropped them into the sink, soapy water splashed to the floor.

“Holy shit,” he yelled, stepping back. “It’s you.”

I couldn’t find words, so I nodded.

“Look, I don’t have your money, all right?” He grabbed a towel and wiped his arms. “I spent it already.”

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed deeply, then reached up and rubbed his eyes, still as bloodshot as when I’d seen him before.

Still, I said nothing. From behind me, I could sense Rebecca inching her way toward the apartment. I imagined she wanted to hear our conversation, to know I was safe.

“So . . .” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Aren’t you gonna say anything? I mean, you stalked me successfully, you might as well talk.” He chuckled into the back of his hand.

This was not the boy I remembered. The outside world had changed him. And not in a good way.

“I need m—my purse,” I said, stumbling over my words. In an attempt to appear strong, I crossed my arms in front of my chest, something Aspen did whenever going head-to-head with Leandra over child rearing or housekeeping.

“Oh, right,” he said, dropping the dishcloth onto the bare counter. He stalked toward me in dramatic steps. “I should’ve known you’d show up here, considering what was in that bag.”

Rebecca didn’t know about my pills. I closed my eyes for a second and tipped my chin up to the ceiling, attempting to stay strong, knowing that one or both of my secrets would soon be spilled.

“You know you’re not supposed to have those,” Porter said. “What would your husband say?”

“How did you know I was married?”

“Oh, puh-lease.” He squinted, tilting his head to the other side. “You’re what—twenty-one, twenty-two? You’re married.”

I said nothing. He was right. In our community, women rarely married older than the age of twenty. And many were married much earlier than that.

His blue eyes were piercing and as many times as I broke our eye contact, whenever I glanced back at him, his stare was still fixed on me. I clutched the fabric of my pocket, twisting and turning the cotton between my fingers.

“Stop avoiding the question,” he said with a sneer. “You’re on the pill.”