Chapter 7: The Text

The familiar creak of the front door hinges as I pushed it open felt jarringly out of sync with the turmoil raging within me. The warm, comforting scent of Mom's lavender potpourri, usually a balm to my frayed nerves, now felt like a suffocating reminder of the normalcy I was being forced to abandon.

My mother, Lydia, was settled in her usual armchair in the living room, the soft glow of the table lamp illuminating the worried lines etched around her eyes as she looked up from her well-worn paperback. The moment her gaze landed on me, her brow furrowed deeper, her green eyes, the same shade that often mirrored my own anxieties, widening with immediate concern.

"Davina, sweetheart? What in heaven's name happened? You look like you've been crying," she said softly, her voice laced with the familiar maternal worry that had been a constant hum in the background of my life. She reached out a hand, her touch gentle and questioning.

I managed a weak, shaky smile, a pathetic attempt to mask the raw terror that still clung to me like a shroud. "Oh, yeah, mom. It's... it's about Dad." The words felt heavy and inadequate, a gross understatement of the horrifying events that had just transpired.

Her expression immediately tightened, the softness replaced by a guarded wariness, a familiar residue of years spent navigating her volatile relationship with Malcolm. "Malcolm? What is it? Nathan called a little while ago, but he was being deliberately vague. Just said there was some trouble at the hospital."

The weight of Ezra's chilling warning pressed down on me, a suffocating gag on the truth. I couldn't tell her. Couldn't expose her to the brutal reality of the beating, the crushing debt, Ezra's menacing threats, or the sickening degradation he had planned for me. Their safety, he had made terrifyingly clear, depended on my silence. So, I carefully constructed a half-truth, focusing on the one aspect I could share without immediate danger.

"He... he wasn't well, Mom. He's in the hospital." My voice trembled slightly, betraying the carefully constructed facade. "He looked... not good at all. And... he was really angry that I was there. He told me to leave."

Lydia's face crumpled, a familiar blend of sadness for me and a deep-seated resentment towards my father. "Oh, Davina. I'm so sorry, dear. That sounds just like him. Even in a crisis, he manages to be cruel."

Just then, Lexi ambled into the living room. Dexter, as usual, trailed a few steps behind her, his perpetually sullen expression clouding his features.

"What's all the gloom?" Lexi asked, her eyes, usually bright and cheerful, scanning my face with genuine concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's your dad, Lexi" my mum explained, her voice heavy with a weariness that went beyond the immediate news. "He's in the hospital, apparently."

A fleeting shadow flickered across Lexi's face, a brief glimpse of a complex emotion – perhaps a lingering hurt or a long-held indifference – before she smoothed it over with a neutral expression. Dexter simply grunted, his lack of interest a palpable presence in the room.

The weight of their unspoken concern, the contrast between their relatively normal lives and the terrifying abyss I had just glimpsed, coupled with the crushing secret I was forced to bear, became an unbearable burden. The carefully constructed composure I had tried to maintain fractured. "I... I'm just incredibly tired," I mumbled, avoiding their concerned gazes. "It's been a long day. I think I'm just going to go upstairs and lie down for a bit."

Before they could press further, their questions hanging unspoken in the air, I turned and practically fled, taking the familiar wooden stairs two at a time. The faint scent of lavender from the linen closet on the landing, usually a source of comfort, offered no solace tonight. I stumbled into the sanctuary of my bedroom, the click of the door latching behind me sounding like a final, isolating barrier against the world.

Collapsing onto my bed, the carefully constructed dam of my emotions finally gave way. Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrolled, soaking into my pillow as the full, horrifying reality of my situation crashed down on me. Stripper. For him. To ensure their survival. The sheer humiliation of it, the gut-wrenching fear, the utter, suffocating helplessness of it all overwhelmed me, leaving me gasping for breath in the quiet darkness of my room.

Just as the storm of my tears began to subside, leaving behind a raw, aching emptiness, my phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. It was a text message from an unknown number. A fresh wave of icy dread washed over me as I hesitantly opened it.

"Enjoying the view, little ghost? Remember our deal. Eyes on you." -E

My breath hitched in my throat. A primal instinct to hide, to disappear, surged through me. I scrambled off the bed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and rushed to the window. Peeking through the gap in the curtains, my blood ran cold. Parked across the quiet street, partially obscured by the leafy branches of the old olive tree, was a sleek, black car that looked sickeningly, undeniably familiar. The tinted windows glinted ominously in the dim glow of the streetlights, impenetrable and menacing, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey.

He was watching me. Even here, in the supposed safety of my own home, he was a constant, looming presence, a silent puppeteer pulling the strings of my life and the lives of my family. With trembling hands, I reached out and slammed the curtains shut, plunging my room into a suffocating darkness. But even in the blackness, I knew he was still out there, a constant, unseen threat.

My life, and the lives of everyone I loved, were now irrevocably, terrifyingly intertwined with this dangerous man named Ezra, and the weight of that realization was a cold, suffocating blanket, smothering any last vestiges of hope. My phone buzzed again in hands, I look at the screen with my eyes wide open.

"You can hide from me anymore little ghost. I will find you no matter what." -E