Four

Chapter Four

NICOLETTE'S POV–

I sprang from my bed and dashed to the living room, where I had put all my dad's things. I needed the journals that would eventually answer my questions.

Wait… I paused midway.

Something was strange about my body. What happened to that excruciating pain that could almost kill me? Where did it all go? My own hands traveled over my entire body, searching for any wounds, scars, or anything that would prove that I had gone to the burial. It only disappointed me. I found nothing. Totally nothing. Yeah, I remembered my nose was hit by a stone, and I ran my fingers over it. Dang! It didn't hurt even a pinch. What the hell was going on? This place was scaring the shit out of me, and I'm not really into it.

Okay, Nicolette Oliveros, calm down. I just needed to breathe.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I would figure it out later, yet mainly I needed the journals. I knew they held all the answers that I needed from the very moment I set foot in here.

I started to open each box that was gathered in the living room; each box had dad's things, though it wasn't the one I was looking for. It must be here somewhere. Did Uncle Arnold take it? No way… Why would he? Unless it held something important...

Found it. It was mixed with dad's old jackets. I sighed in relief. Finally, I got to read what was written in these journals without any interruptions.

Or so I thought.

Not until the main door swung open and slammed against the wall. I flinched in surprise and accidentally dropped the journals. Fuck! What kind of hand was this that couldn't grip a small object?

I quickly crawled in the direction of the journals while stretching my arm. I had to get my hands on it, or I would lose my chance again.

Terribly, someone was already standing in front of it and picked up the journals. Damn it! I slapped my fist on the wooden floor in disappointment, tightened my jaw as I watched the journals being lifted away from my reach.

“Nicky, everyone’s looking for you,” James stated. He had something tucked under his armpit, something large that was covered by an old, faded newspaper.

I stood, pulled up my jeans while staring at the journals that were in his hand. “Eh… Can I have those?” I met his gaze, printed a small smile, and stretched my open palm to him, gesturing to hand over those journals.

His head leaned back as his brows knitted. “Is your nose okay?” His eyes were examining my face. “Or are you okay?”

Surely, he was puzzled as to what had happened to my wounds and scars. I didn’t have any answers either. I was in the middle of figuring it out when you fucking came.

“I’m absolutely okay,” I replied and stepped forward, reaching for those journals. “Now hand those journals to me.”

“Wait,” he uttered as he stepped back. “Dad asked me to give you this.” He pulled out the object that was tucked under his armpit and handed it to me.

I stared into his eyes with a stone face, trying to read what was on his mind. Uncle Arnold did? What had gotten into him? And what the fuck was this anyway?

James noticed that I was having second thoughts and forced a smile. Obviously, he was trying to convince me that it was nothing strange. Well, I was still unpersuaded.

He cleared his throat. “Nicky, it’s been a decade since I handed this to you,” he laughed out of discomfort.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt if I accepted it, right? I had nothing to lose anyway.

I took it after roasting James for a few minutes. He let out a sigh of relief—perhaps his hand was hurting him while I was scanning his face.

My eyes were still glued to his face while my hands were busy tearing off the newspaper, never missing a single nerve reaction from him. A stilted chuckle was engraved on his face, which gave me a hint that something was probably off. Or was it just my sharp look that cut some of his nerves?

Frozen in surprise. It was something I had never expected. It was a painting of a man holding a booklet in his right hand, nearly caught on fire from the candle—his left hand was lifted in front of his chest, seeming to reject the glass of water given by another man, and the part that caught my attention the most was the silhouette of a wolf behind the man holding the booklet.

Words juggled in my head, my brows furrowed in confusion, my mouth wanted to ask for explanations but words wouldn’t come out.

James cleared his throat, catching my attention. “Uncle Sylvester painted that a few days before he died.”

A piercing stare landed back on him, giving him the vibe that I wasn’t buying it. “Dad did?”

He nodded.

Hesitation clouded my thoughts. Dad was also a good artist. His favorite portrait was of me and my mom when I was young. Then there was this one. A poetically bizarre painting that sent an unsettling aura. What was this supposed to mean?

The silence seemed too uncomfortable, so James had to break it.

“Uncle Sylvester was battling his own demons in his early 30s,” James sounded hesitant but cracked a small smile, his eyes staring at the painting. “He often isolated himself in his house and refused to interact socially.”

Questions started filling my head, my eyes suspiciously locked on him. “And how exactly did my dad die?”

The question left him stunned, making him stutter to respond. “A citizen found him dead in the woods. Forensics said that he died due to snake venom.” His eyes were still on the painting, obviously avoiding my sight.

Not a word of response from me. Only my eyes thoroughly analyzed every movement of his facial muscles. My instincts told me that something was off and James wasn’t up to telling me.

His gaze met mine, and seeing how I roasted him with my sharp glare, a shaky snicker cracked on his face. “Your looks are killing me, Nicky.”

My head tilted with a fake smile. “Not deadly enough to stab you.”

His chuckle sounded tense, and his tone was uneasy. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I didn’t have a long day to play games or whatever James was trying to pull off. What I needed right now was answers, not another headache.

Steadily holding the gaze, I extended my open hand. “The journals.”

He scoffed, looking at the journals he was holding. “What exactly is in these journals?” He opened one and started flipping through the pages, his forehead creased with confusion. “Nothing was even written here.”

Nothing? That was impossible. I just read a couple of sentences from it yesterday.

I stole the journals from his hand only to see all of the pages were blank. Ridiculous. There was no way I was mistaken. How the hell had the words vanished?

Frustrated, I abandoned one and started ruffling the pages of the other. Same. Not even a single word was written. Even the third journal just disappointed me. This was all geek to me. What in the name of hell was going on?

“Nicky,” James murmured, “Are you okay?”

Rage rose from my throat and escaped through my mouth, shooting him a furious gaze. “What have you done?”

Confusion struck his face. “Done what?”

“Everything that was written here is missing,” I yelled out of frustration. James must have pulled some magical trick to make the words disappear.

His grim look locked on mine, leaning toward my face. “Nothing was written there, Nicolette.”

“Yes, it ha—” he cut me off, wrapping his arms around my body.

The painting slipped from my hand, his palm rubbing against my back, and my eyes widened in surprise. “I know you’re hurt, Nicky. It’s been a rough day,” he whispered. “You just need to rest.”

What the fuck was he talking about? I had enough rest after waking up in my bed, hiding in the woods to escape from those idiotic people.

I pressed my hands on his chest, trying to break free from his hug, yet his natural manly strength prevented me. He dragged me to my dad’s room while locked in his masculine arms.

“James, let me—” Tightening the hug interrupted my words, feeling a knot in my chest. He restrained me too much for me to break free.

“Calm down, Nicky,” his soft voice lingered in my ear, feeling his warm breath on my neck sent chills down my spine. “All you need is just one good rest and you’ll be fine.”

Today has been a total disaster. Perhaps that was what I needed. A rest after a hell of a day. I let my body lean on his chest and my head rest on his shoulders. Too much had come like a hurricane that I couldn’t get a hold of myself.

I let my body bounce on the bed, watching James make the bed comfortable for me; he made sure the pillow was perfectly placed, covered me with a thick blanket, and finalized it with a smile of assurance. Blankness stared back, no emotions. Just my eyes in distress.

He wrapped his hands around mine, his thumb caressed the back of my palm. “It’s okay, Nicky. You got me. Just rest,” he murmured, his lips curved into a gentle, reassuring smile.

No emotion lingered with me, which meant no reaction to his soothing words. I just felt nothing. My eyes did nothing but stare at his gentle face.

He stood and walked to the door. I felt his final stare for a few seconds before I heard the doorknob click. That was it? After all the trouble, the journal was empty? If that was the case, what were those words that I had read when I arrived here? That was absolutely dad’s handwriting. Did Uncle Arnold tear it out when I fell asleep? Unless the contents were a dark secret related to him or linked to him, why would he?

Questions without clear answers piled up in my mind and made me ridiculously insane. Only if I could find real answers and explanations, it would eventually turn me into a living zombie for the rest of the nights.

I slapped my forehead. Who would have thought that coming back here meant sending my soul to hell? Now, I had to get it together, or this would destroy my mental health and end up following dad.

Gravity pulled my eyelids down. Something I wasn’t aware of. The instant my vision became dark, I heard a howl that God knows where it came from.

“He is someone you can never trust,” a groan echoed in my mind that gave me electricity that climbed to my nape.

My eyes burst open, darting to every corner of the room for the possibility that it might come from there. Nothing but stillness. Now my chest felt like it just exploded. Was my anxiety kicking again? Why now? Why even here?

I dragged my blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut. I hate this place. I should never have set foot in here. I couldn’t even get a simple rest.

The feeling in my bones told me that something—like deep forest eyes—was watching, causing my body to completely turn to stone.

“The painting. Ash wanted to tell you something,” the same deep husky voice echoed in my head again.

I sprang on my bed, chasing every breath as if it were my last. Whose voice was that? I had never heard that voice ever since I was born. And what painting? Was that voice talking about the painting James gave me? This had gone out of hand, and I was about to lose it any moment by now.