NINE: What's Down There?

"Andrew's on his way," he says flatly, all but glaring at me.

His eyes are steely-cold, his entire body tensed.

"I'm sorry," I sputter before I can help myself. "It's just... it's such a beautiful house, I just wanted to... I won't – I'm not – I don't think it's weird or anything that it's empty. I swear," I stammer, my foot fully in my mouth at this point. I curse myself, trying to explain. "I just wanted to... I should have asked. I'm sorry."

Harlan strikes me as just about the most private person on the face of the planet. And yet here I find myself, snooping around his home without permission, standing in a suspiciously empty room.

But why is it empty? And why is the house so devoid of personality? Suddenly, I find myself wondering how long he'd been working at the college. For all I know, he’s a serial killer. An incredibly wealthy serial killer who has to be ready to abandon his place of residence at a moment's notice.

"What are you doing sneaking around my house?"

Who is Ethan Hale?

"I'm not sneaking!" I insist. "I just... I wanted–"

"Were you trying to find my bedroom?"

"What? No!" I squeak.

"What exactly were you trying to find?"

I blink. "Harlan, I wasn't trying to find anything," I tell him. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what the rest of this place looked like."

His jaw sets.

"But you're wondering why it's empty?" He doesn't phrase it like a question.

I swallow thickly, my face giving away my fears. Not that I think he’s a serial killer: I know that is overkill and fucking stupid. But it is... weird, isn't it? Someone as obviously wealthy as him, someone who is going by a name that isn't his own, who could afford to convert his spaces into whatever he wants... why would his home be so unfeeling?

And to find a room completely empty... it doesn't sit right with me, not given the circumstances.

"And you're being secretive." The words fall out and lay before him before I even realize I've said them.

It is maybe the heaviest silence I've even felt.

The weight of my words hangs thick in the air and I wish more than anything that I could take them back.

He eyes me before speaking. His gaze makes my blood feel like ice.

"I inherited this house from my father when he died," he says.

I take a breath. "I'm-I'm sorry."

"My mother was born into money. She and my father lived out of state, but he's originally from here, in Boston. When he died, I thought maybe she'd move back here to be closer to me." He looks away, jaw tensing. "But my mother and I... we haven't been in contact with each other in a long time. Not like a mother and son should. She didn't come, but sent me a letter that the house would pass along to me. I was living in an apartment at the time. It was nice. Perfectly adequate for my needs. But I didn't want the house to go to someone outside of the family. So I took it."

"O-oh," I mutter in a small voice, furrowing my brow, feeling a twinge in my heart for his suffering but not fully understanding why he is telling me this.

He lifts his gaze, eyes meeting mine with the same coldness that was there before he started talking to me. "It has six bedrooms."

I blink. "I'm sorry?"

"This house. It has six bedrooms," he tilts his head. "Forgive me, but I'm not an interior decorator, and I don't have the time nor the patience to furnish several empty rooms when my job barely allows me to be home at all."

Shit.

I feel like an idiot. I feel invasive and dirty, and honestly, sort of psychotic. What the hell am I thinking, picking the most fiercely private and mysterious individuals I know to sneak around their house behind closed doors?

I feel heat rising to my cheeks as he stands in the doorway. I feel embarrassment roiling in my stomach and shame settling deep in my chest.

Way to really fucking humiliate myself.

"I'm sorry," I say again. What else does he expect me to say? And how many times does he expect me to say it? "Honestly," I say, shaking my head and exhaling, "I've never even stepped foot in a place like this. My house is, like, a fraction this size. I go to school on a scholarship that cuts my tuition in half. And even then, I'm gonna be in debt for the rest of my life. I know it was a dick move, and I'm sorry, but I don't think you know how insane this place is to someone like me."

I hold his gaze, heart beating fast, hoping he believes my words, but feeling guilty at pulling the sob-story card. Sure, everything that I say is true; I don't come from money like he does, and my friends and I always joke about how I'd never be able to afford a place like this. But a part of me, a dark part of me, is suspicious of him, of his secrecy and mysteriousness.

He sighs, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway.

"Come here," he says, after a pause of pondering my intrusion and beckoning me begrudgingly towards him. "Let me show you the rest of it."

I grin, nod, and follow him out of the room and down the hall.

I've never seen a home laid out like this before. He mentions the first floor is made up mainly by the foyer and recreation room. The second floor houses the living room, kitchen, and dining room. The third floor, where Harlan has caught me, has one empty bedroom and one room that he'd converted into a study. He opens up the door to show me. It is meticulously organized, which I scoff at, considering that earlier, he'd said it had been a mess.

A mess for his standards, I suppose.

"What's down there?" I ask, gesturing to the other end of the hall.

He leads me to the other end, opening the door. "Master bed."

I look at him for permission, and when he nods, I poke my head through the opening of the door.

It is absolutely magnificent, and absolutely massive. It keeps the elegant, nearly rococo style that has been built into the house, that I don't think matches with Harlan's personality. Despite the gold mirror and crystal chandelier and painted trimmings on the wall, he'd modernized the furnishings.

His bed is over twice the size of mine. As I look around his living space, I try not to feel jealous.

"It's really nice," I tell him.

He looks into the room as if he is trying to see what I see. But I don't get the impression that he doesn't feel grateful for the beautiful things he has.

I get the impression that he just doesn't feel like it’s home.

"It's more than I deserve," he admits, before stepping away and continuing up the stairs. "There's one more thing you should see."

I follow Harlan to a door at the top of the stairs. When he opens it, I feel the cool, Boston night air wisp against my skin. I grin, following him onto his very own private rooftop terrace, tasting the fresh air and walking to the fence, eyes falling on the skyline of other beautiful brownstones.

He comes to stand beside me, silently watching me explore his world.

"Is there anything you don't have?" I ask breathlessly.

I hear him laugh from beside me, softly. Sadly. He doesn't answer.

I turn to him. "Thank you for showing me. You have an incredible home."

"Thank you," he mutters, eyes flickering down to my lips.

I think we'll kiss. I think he'll pull me roughly against him and I can snuggle into his chest. But he doesn't. The next thing I know, he’s walking me to his car, arms at his side. But as I climb into the back seat, thanking him for his generosity, I feel his hand on my lower back, just for a moment.

And as I ride away back to campus, I furrow my brow, watching him shrink in the rear-view mirror, staring after me as I leave.

So studying is the only thing in the cards today... is there anything wrong with that?

I lean my head against the window and watch the stars.

I feel ashamed for being suspicious of him. For looking around his home without his permission as a result of my scepticism, even if he forgave me. I feel worse that I've lied about not being slightly suspicious of him. Because even though he'd opened up to me, explained why he lives life a little differently, the tugging at the back of my mind is still there.

It is stronger.

Something still doesn't sit right.

When I get back to my dorm, I sling my jacket over the couch in the living room and continue to my bedroom. Being curious isn't doing me any good, and it nearly got me into trouble today. Time to put it to rest.

Opening my laptop, even though I feel creepy continuing to dig, I push through the dirty feeling.

"Fuck it," I mutter to myself, opening G****e.

And then my fingers are typing, and I'm chewing on my lip.

"Who is Ethan Hale?"

Search.