Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Along the upstairs hall are six doors, and I’m led to one at the far end, where oaf number one unlocks the door and gestures for me to enter.
I do and turn to him. “Where’s Amadeo?” I ask as he pulls the door closed. “Hey!” I try to stop him from closing it, but I’m pretty sure he’d slam my fingers in it, so I pull back just before it shuts, and I hear myself being locked in. Again.
Fine.
I turn to survey the room. It’s a large, beautifully furnished room in an Italian style with both antique and modern furnishings, the touches working beautifully together. The four-poster mahogany bed in the center has an intricately carved headboard and posts. It looks about a hundred years old. The bedding, curtains, and carpet are all dark and very masculine. For a moment, I wonder if it’s Amadeo’s or Bastian’s bedroom, but I see no personal touches. The bookcase is empty, as is the walk-in closet. I sit on the edge of the bed to test the mattress. It’s comfortable, as are the pillows, opposite my hilltop prison. If this is a guest room, I wonder about the other rooms in this house.
The best part of the room, though, is my suitcase sitting open on a luggage stand across the room.
I leap to my feet and go to it, ignoring the French doors that lead to a balcony and a view of the gardens and the sea beyond. I’m still wearing the dress I wore to the funeral, and although I’d packed light, thinking I’d only be staying a few days, I’m grateful to have my things.
Rifling through the suitcase, I’m aware someone has been through it. My bras and panties are lying on top, and I push the idea of Amadeo or one of his oafs handling my personal things out of my mind. I wasn’t hiding weapons in here. I’d come to my father’s funeral. And from what I can see, nothing is missing, so I take my bag of toiletries and head to the bathroom.
The bathroom is marble, as expected, and just as the bedroom is, it’s beautiful. Like the Ravello villa, fixtures are modern but in keeping historical elements. I lock the door and set my things on the shelf above the pedestal sink, washing my hands. My reflection shows a mass of bedhead hair that’s been through it. The waves are hard enough to manage with conditioner and a comb but using just my fingers doesn’t work. It’s too thick and too rebellious. It’s exactly like my mom’s hair, though. I look more and more like her. Emma, too, although less so than me.
The thought of my mother, of Emma, dampens the momentary reprieve seeing my things had given me, so I decide to forego the glassed-in shower and move to the deep, claw-footed soaking tub to figure out how the old-fashioned knobs work. Once I get it to the temperature I want and begin to fill it, I strip off my clothes and look through the drawers and cabinets. I find most empty, apart from guest toiletries, so I take in the view from the window until the tub is full. I switch off the water and set my bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash on the shelf by the tub and step in. The water is almost too hot as I descend so deep I’m in to my neck. I rest my head back on the lip of the tub and listen to the sounds of the last drops of water falling from the copper faucet. I slide deeper, going fully under, and hold my breath. I love the sound of water when I’m fully submerged. I always have. There’s a silence that belongs to it that no human sound can penetrate. That lets my mind quiet and allows me to escape for brief moments as long as I can hold my breath.
I come up for air and pick up the shampoo, glancing at the glassed-in shower stall. A shower would have probably been smarter, but I’ve always preferred baths, so I shampoo once, twice, the water growing sudsy as I rinse my hair before applying conditioner. I take the loofah that was already on the shelf out of the packaging and clean the dirt of the last few days off me. The funeral. Amadeo. Bastian.
My father is dead. I wasn’t prepared for it. I didn’t expect him to die. He’d lost weight the last few weeks and was unable to keep food down at times. I’d just thought he’d get better. But then he had a massive heart attack… I haven’t processed it yet, the fact that he’s really gone.
I push the thoughts out of my head. Now isn’t the time to start processing. Using my wide-tooth comb, I detangle my hair with the conditioner still in it. Then I descend again and let myself float beneath the surface. The tub is deep enough. What a luxury. And as I lay there hearing the sound of water, of the drip from the faucet, I let myself forget just for a moment. Just for now. I hold my breath and just let myself be.