Page 9 of A Silence So Divine

He holds a pen out to me, snatching it back before my fingers close around it.

“If you try anything, I will not hesitate to stick you. Understood?” His voice is gravelly and I swallow hard. Whenever I would dream of meeting a stranger, it was never like this. It was pleasant, polite. This man acts as though he hates me. But maybe it isn’t me…

My heart stutters. What if they are after Papa? My father wasn’t a kind man, and I’m certain he has enemies. Is that why he left?

With the pen in my hand, he begins his interrogation once more.

“What’s your name?”

The fatigue affects my penmanship. His eyes narrow at the chicken scratch.

Eden

He says my name aloud and I shiver. I’ve only heard my name in my father’s tone, usually one of disdain. But this man says it quietly, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, but I label it as anxiety.

Before he can ask another question, I write next to it:

Yours?

There’s a moment where I assume he’s going to ignore me, but after staring at the page for a moment, he answers.

“Cecil.”

The name is unusual, and makes him less intimidating somehow.

Our eyes meet. As though reading my thoughts, he scoffs before continuing.

“Why are you here?”

He looks at me expectantly, like a confession is bound to pour out. If anyone should be asking that question, it should be me.

I live here

A thick brow raises and he scans the ornate room.

“How?” Incredulousness accentuates the word.

My lips pull down in a frown. What kind of question is that?

“Do you live here alone? Why were you in the attic?” As he speaks, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. His denim clad hip presses to my bare calf and I squirm atop the blankets. He scoots until there’s a gap between us.

I choose to only answer the first question.

I live here with my father

If my last answer takes him aback, this one may have well thrown him across the continent. The muscles in his arms pull taut, my eyes following the cords until I see white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the knife. Not only are his hands huge and calloused, they’re littered with pale scars. I was beginning to relax in his presence, but the sight has panic rising into my throat.

There is a piece to this puzzle that I’m missing. One that could cost me my life.

Narrowed eyes drop to my neck, zeroing in on my jumping pulse. When he speaks next, his tone is softer, though the scowl deepens. As though gentleness pains him.

“How long have you lived here?” Caught in another staring contest, I’m quick to break it. I can’t help feeling that this question holds more weight than I know.

All my life

He’s on his feet the second I finish writing, ordering me to stay put as if I have a choice in the matter. The slamming door rattles an assortment of cologne bottles that line my father’s dresser.

There’s more I want to say. I want to ask why they are here. I want to tell them that they must leave, that my father wouldn’t be happy if he knew they were even speaking with me. But then, if they left, and I were alone again…