He wants you

[Emma]

The sound of my father's footsteps downstairs was wrong. Too slow, too uneven. Like each step cost him something he couldn’t afford to lose.

It was past midnight. Even though he’d told me not to wait up, I waited anyway. Curled on the sofa with the lamp turned low, pretending to read the same page over and over while my ears strained for the gate, for his key, for anything that would announce his arrival, that would tell me that he was still very much alive.

When the front door finally clicked open downstairs, I exhaled so hard that I felt a sudden sharpness in my chest.

I sprang up and hurried down the stairs with my bare feet silent on the wood. Halfway down the stairs, I slowed when I realized that he wasn’t coming up. He’d stopped somewhere below, and I couldn't help the scary thoughts that found their way into my head.

What if he was wounded, or dead even? What if his body was only delivered, and soaked with his own blood?

A cold shiver ran through my spine, and halted my movement to a final stop. I peered through but there was nothing to see from the middle of the stairs other than the reflection of the sitting room light which spilled eerily across the hallway. Cowering in fear wasn't all easy as it seemed so I headed down.

I found him collapsed in the old armchair, head tipped back, eyes open but staring at nothing. His shirt was untucked, and unbuttoned, displaying his hairy chest. His hands rested limply on his thighs like they belonged to someone else. His focus was anywhere but here.

My gaze swept him in frantic scrutiny. No blood on his shirt, no split knuckles, no bruise blooming under his eye. No obvious wound. Relief coursed through me, sharp, and strangely familiar, but it didn't linger.

No visible damage didn’t mean undamaged. Not when the man who’d kept him out until now was Zack.

“Dad?”

I got no response from him.

“Dad.”

I called again with my voice slightly raised.

He jolted upright like I’d slapped him. Eyes focused slowly on my face. Recognition at first, then something else I didn't quite recognize. Guilt perhaps.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.” I stepped closer. Close enough to smell the faint copper tang of sweat on him, but there was more. The stench of whiskey oozed from his corner, and my chest tightened the more.

“You’re late and…” I hesitated for a while. “drunk.”

“You shouldn’t have waited.” His voice was gravel. He pushed himself out of the chair. slow, careful, like moving hurt in places I couldn’t see. Already turning for the stairs. Already building the wall.

“Is something wrong?”

He stopped. Shoulders dropped another inch.

“It’s late, Emma. Go to bed.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I called after his retreating figure.

He paused. Without looking back, he held out his arm. I closed the distance, and slid against his side. His arm came around me, too tight, fingers digging into my shoulder like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

We climbed together. One step. Two. His breathing was shallow. Uneven.

“Sorry,” he whispered against my hair. The word cracked like thin ice.

Whatever Zack had done tonight, it had left cracks in him, and I could feel through his shirt. We’d talk tomorrow, or so I told myself.

**********

Morning light sliced through the kitchen curtains, harsh, unforgiving. Dad sat at the table with coffee he hadn’t touched. Black. Cold. His hands wrapped around the mug anyway, like it was the only thing anchoring him.

I stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight over my chest to keep everything inside.

“Me?” The word came out calmly, contrasting how and what I felt inside.

He didn’t look up when I spoke. He stared at the mug instead, and said nothing. But I could feel his unease, his anger, and how distressed he was.

My stomach lurched. Bile burned the back of my throat.

“He’s a monster.” My voice stayed steady even as tears stung. “You’ve told me the stories. The girls who go in and don’t come out the same. The ones who don’t come out at all.”

“I know what he is.” Finally he met my eyes. His were bloodshot. Hollowed. “That’s why I’d rather die than hand you over.”

The words hit like a fist.

“You’re going to protect me from him?” I brought my voice even lower. “From Zack?”

He held my gaze for three heartbeats. Then looked away toward the window, the garden, anywhere but me.

“You can’t.” My voice quivered. “No one crosses him. No one lives to brag about it. You know that better than anyone.”

“Someone has to try.” His voice was quiet, almost gentle.

“And if not now that he had named his price, then when?”

I shook my head violently. “Please. I need you alive. I need you here. Not a grave. Not a missing-person report. Not another story people whisper about. I need you here. With me.

Silence swallowed the kitchen.

He reached across the table. Took my hand. His palm was trembling.

“I’ll find another way,” he said. “Something. Anything.”

We both heard the lie. There was no other way. When Zack wanted something or someone, he collected them. He always did.

“I’ll go,” I said. The words tasted like metal. “If that’s what keeps you breathing.”

His thumb brushed my cheek, and caught the tear before it fell. “No.” His voice cracked open. Raw. “You won’t. I won’t let him have you.”

He squeezed my hand until the bones ached but I didn’t pull away. These moments would become treasured moments soon, and I was not about to tamper with it.

Another silence ensued between us. Longer, and heavier.

I could see it already. I could see myself walking through that iron gate tomorrow evening. Past the black-suited men with guns under their jackets. Into the red-lit hallways. Up the private elevator. Into the office where the sofa always smelled faintly of whiskey and violence.

I could see the things he’d do. The things I’d have to survive. The way my body would learn to go still and small while my mind screamed somewhere far away.

“How long do I have?” My voice sounded distant, like someone else’s.

“Tomorrow evening.” He stared out at the garden again, blindly. “Before midnight.”

I nodded, and blinked hard. More tears escaped anyway.

“But you’re not going,” He added. His voice was softer now, but more desperate. Like saying it enough times would make it true.

I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

Because the math was simple now. One of us was walking into that house tomorrow night.

And if it wasn’t me, it would be him, shot in the back of the head like many others before, and dragged off somewhere no one would ever find the pieces.

I stared at our joined hands. Both trembling, and I made a decision.

Later, when he’d gone upstairs to lie down, claiming exhaustion, I stood at the kitchen sink and stared at my reflection in the dark window.

Tomorrow evening. Before midnight.

I pressed my forehead to the cold glass as the words resounded in my head.

It was sealed. No one will be able to change or stop it. Not my father, or any of his friends.