Chapter 3

I settled into life in this house like a ghost.

Jonathan preferred silence. Even the house staff walked on tiptoes.

Every day, Mom tried new ways to please him. She made casseroles, gave him massages, and sat with him watching those dry financial news programs. In this house, she lived like a high-end housekeeper.

As for me, I barely left my room except to eat. I cleaned out the storage room until it was spotless. Even though it was still packed with old furniture, the sunlight there was perfect. I often dragged a chair to the window and sat there for hours, basking in the sun, like an old man waiting for the end.

Sometimes Jonathan would pass by my door. When he saw me sitting in the sunlight, he would pause for a moment, but he never said anything.

The look in his eyes was strange, like he was looking at a reflection of himself.

That afternoon at lunch, the table was quiet. The only sound was the faint clink of cutlery against plates.

My phone suddenly vibrated. In the silence, it sounded like an alarm.

Jonathan frowned.

Mom immediately set down her spoon and shot me a glare. "Who told you to bring your phone to the table? How rude. Hang up."

I took out my phone and glanced at the screen.

It was Mathias.

I declined the call.

Two seconds later, it rang again, and I declined it again.

The third time it buzzed, Jonathan set down his cutlery.

"Take it," he said flatly. "It’s giving me a headache."

I took the phone and stepped out onto the balcony. The moment I answered, Mathias’s voice exploded through the line.

"Tyler, are you doing this on purpose? You took the bankbook, didn’t you?"

I held the phone a little farther away. "What bankbook?"

"Dad said the one at home is missing. You must’ve stolen it. There’s $5,000 in there!"

I laughed. That $5,000 was what I earned last summer hauling bricks at a construction site.

"I earned that money," I said.

"If you earned it, it still belongs to the family." Mathias sounded completely justified. "Dad doesn’t even have money for cigarettes right now. He’s losing his temper at home. Transfer the money back now. Or I’ll tell Mom you stole it."

From the other end of the line came the sound of things smashing and Dad’s angry shouting.

"Ungrateful trash! Raising you was a waste. I should’ve strangled you when you were born."

Even across hundreds of miles, those words made it hard to breathe.

"I didn’t steal anything," I said calmly. "That was supposed to be my medical fund."

"Medical fund? What’s wrong with you?" Mathias let out a mocking laugh. "What are you acting so delicate for? Transfer the money now, or I’ll go to your school and make a scene. I’ll tell everyone you don’t care if your own father lives or dies."

I looked out over the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, red as blood.

"Mathias, you chose your path. You’ll live with it. Don’t bother me again." I hung up and blocked his number.

As I turned, I felt something warm under my nose.

I reached up. My hand came away covered in blood. I fumbled for tissues and pressed them against my nose, tilting my head back to stop the bleeding. The blood flowed fast, running down my throat and into my stomach, making me nauseous.

I rushed into the downstairs bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, I watched as the bright red blood stained half my face. I turned on the faucet and started washing frantically.

"What are you doing?"

A voice came from behind me.

I froze.

Through the mirror, I saw Jonathan standing in the doorway. He looked at my face, wet with water and streaked with blood, his gaze deep and unreadable.

I wiped my face hastily.

"Just a nosebleed," I said, keeping my head down. "Probably the heat."

Jonathan didn’t respond. He walked over and handed me a clean towel. "Wipe it."

I took it and pressed it to my nose. "Thank you, Uncle Jonathan."

His eyes lingered on the faint red stains still in the sink. "Does this happen often?"

"Sometimes," I lied. The nosebleeds had been getting more frequent lately.

Jonathan stared at me for a moment. "You should go to the hospital," he said.

"It’s fine. Just an old issue." I kept my head down, trying to move past him.

"Tyler." He stopped me. "In this house, you don’t have to live like you’re walking on eggshells. Your mother is your mother. You are you."

I paused and looked up at him. His expression was still cold, but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite understand.

"If you don’t feel well, say it. No one’s going to give you a medal for toughing it out."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the bathroom.

The towel in my hand still carried a faint scent of pine.

His scent.

And beneath it… something faintly resembling death.