Chapter 241
DEMI
My heart skids the moment I shut the door behind me. Something in the air feels very wrong. It is the kind of prickling awareness that someone unknown is breathing the same air you are while standing somewhere beyond the edge of your vision.
I freeze by the door, listening while my eyes adjust to the dimness. Outside, the night wind brushes against the trees surrounding the cottage, The old wooden beams creak softly as the house settles.
Then I hear it again; a faint sound from upstairs. My heart stutters and every muscle in my body tightens at once. Mentally, I tell myself not to panic. It could be the wind. Old houses make noises all the time. Pipes can shift. Floorboards do expand and animals crawl through the walls.
Except the sound comes again, clearer. It’s a dull scrape, like someone moving something heavy. My stomach drops. That is most definitely not an animal; that’s a human intruder!
Someone is upstairs in MY house. Dear lord. I swallow hard and force myself to breathe through my nose. My pulse is hammering so loudly I am convinced whoever is up there must be able to hear it.
Slowly, I turn toward the kitchen. If there is someone in this house, I am not going up there empty-handed. My steps are careful and measured as I move. It feels like I am tiptoeing through a nightmare I have not fully woken from.
The kitchen light spills across the floor in a warm yellow square. I step inside and glance around. The knife block is sitting on the counter. For a moment I consider grabbing one. Then I shake my head. I have no idea how to use a knife in a fight and the thought of actually stabbing someone or being stabbed by a knife I picked makes my stomach twist.
My eyes land on something leaning against the wall beside the pantry. Instinctively, I grab the heavy iron skillet. The weight of it steadies me a little. If someone jumps out at me, I can swing. My palms are already sweating as I tighten my grip on the handle.
Silently, I step back into the hallway and look toward the staircase. The upper floor disappears into darkness. The only light comes from the small flashlight on my phone.
My thumb clicks it on. A narrow beam of white cuts through the shadows. I take a slow breath, then I start up the stairs. Each step creaks under my weight and I cringe every time it happens. The old wood groans under my weight.
I try to place my feet carefully near the edges of the boards, remembering something I once read about how that reduces noise. It does not help much. Hopefully, the intruder isn’t paying too much attention to anything else outside what he/she is stealing.
Another sound floats down from above, a shuffle, like something sliding across the floor. Again, the cold reality of a home intrusion makes my pulse spike. Whoever is upstairs seems to be in a hurry.
I reach the top step and pause. The hallway stretches ahead of me, narrow and dim. Old pictures line the walls, their glass surfaces reflecting my flashlight beam in quick flashes of white.
For a moment I simply stand there listening to the sound coming from the far end of the hall. My stomach twists as I realize what room the intruder is in. It’s the one door that had been locked since I started cleaning the house.
I had tried opening it the second day I arrived. I searched the entire cottage for a key and never found one. Eventually I gave up and left it alone while I cleaned out the other spaces.
Now the door is slightly open allowing a thin strip of light spill across the hallway floor.
My heart starts pounding again. The door being open means whoever is inside had a key, and if they do, then they know their way around. They’ve been here before. My grip tightens around the skillet as I approach slowly. I stop just outside the doorway.
My voice comes out croaked "Uncle Marcel?"
The sound inside stops instantly. I raise my phone and shine the flashlight just as a figure turns toward me. I nearly swing the skillet.
"Demi?"
Relief floods through me so fast my knees feel weak.
"Uncle Marcel?"
He looks as startled as I feel. His eyes drop to the skillet in my hand. "What are you doing with that?"
I drop my hands but continue to clutch the pan for dear life.
"You scared the hell out of me. I thought someone broke into the house."
Marcel studies me for a moment, then exhales slowly. "I’m sorry about that. I should have called but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me after the way we left things."
His tone is light but something about him feels tense. My attention shifts past him into the room that’s been locked for a while. It is smaller than the others upstairs and cluttered in a way the rest of the cottage is not.
Boxes sit stacked along one wall. A vanity table is covered with trinkets and jewelry stands. A narrow bed frame rests against the far corner beneath a faded window curtain. Recognition flickers through my mind.
"This used to be Mom’s room." I say emphatically, eyes dreamily sweeping over every inch of the room. Marcel steps slightly to the side, blocking part of my view.
"Yes, it used to be." Despite his deft skill of distraction, I still notice the subtle movement of his hand as he slips a small object into the back pocket of his jeans. The motion is quick but not quick enough.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, tearing my eyes off the moldy room to his face. "Why did you come back?"
"I could not leave things the way they were earlier. You seemed really upset and I thought maybe I could stay the weekend and help you settle in while we patch things up between us."
The explanation sounds reasonable, perhaps too reasonable my suspicion grows even bigger. My eyes drift back to the room.
"I tried opening this door when I was cleaning," I say slowly. "It was locked."
"Yes."
"And though I searched everywhere, I could not find any key that could open it. Where did you find the key? Or have you always had it on you?"
Marcel shifts his weight, hating my stubborn attempt to stay on a topic he’s trying too hard to evade.
"Yeah, I have it on me."
That does not surprise me. What surprises me is the sudden heaviness in the air between us. I step past him before he can stop me. The room smells faintly like old paper and lavender. A strange warmth spreads through my chest as I look around.
This was my mother’s space. I dare to think that her scent might still linger somewhere in here, beneath layers of mold. Small objects sit exactly where she must have left them years ago: a glass jar filled with seashells, a cracked jewelry stand holding several bracelets, tiny carved figurines that make no sense to anyone but the person who collected them.
My vision blurs slightly as I move toward the vanity. I open one of the drawers. Inside are several pieces of jewelry. Underneath them is a stack of papers with a hospital letterhead. My fingers twitch toward them but Marcel’s hand slams the drawer shut before I can reach.
"Demi." His voice is sharp enough to make me jump. "Do not go down that path, I beg you."
"What path?"
"You know what happened the last time you started digging into your mother’s past."
The words hit like a splash of cold water. Of course, I do. I had gotten into an accident that resulted in my memory loss. I swiped at the wetness in my eyes, unwilling to let give up. There are just too many strange gaps in my childhood memories that have started to make themselves obvious lately, so obvious I can’t ignore them.
"You know those memories triggered it," he continues.
"Maybe they did but I am much better now. I can handle the truth." I whisper more weakly than I hoped to sound.
He shakes his head. "You can’t take the risk. It’s too dangerous, Demi, and very unnecessary."
"What risks?"
His gaze softens as they stay on me. "Some things are better left alone. Cherish your mother’s memories as you rightly should but don’t go poking at her hurtful past. You won’t like it, I promise you."
The statement only fuels my curiosity even further. "Marcel, you’ve been acting strange lately. I can’t help but think there’s more to my mother’s story that you aren’t telling me. I’m going to ask again and I sincerely hope you come clean. What other family secrets are you keeping from me?"
Instead of answering, he gently takes my arm and guides me toward the door amidst my protests.
"We should go downstairs."
"Uncle Marcel."
"This room is better off locked."
"Why?"
He closes the door behind us and locks it again. The sound of the key turning echoes in my head, like he’s shutting me out forever from an important piece required to make my life feel whole again.
I follow him down the stairs. "This is bullshit! You cannot keep shutting me out like I am a kid." My voice cracks slightly. "I deserve to know everything important detail about my mother’s life"
He stops halfway down the staircase. When he turns to face me, his expression is weary. "You already know the most important part."
"That she struggled with mental health?"
"Yes."
"Only because I stumbled into the truth courtesy of Ashton. I wager you never planned to tell me that MY own mother suffered a mental condition that could have influenced her action on the very night that changed my life forever. You were never going to tell me, were you?"
"I did it..."
"To protect me? Save me the lame excuse. You don’t get to decide that. You only hurt me more by lying to me and right now, you’re doing it again, uncle Marcel. Tell me the truth this one time for goodness’ sake. What else are you keeping from me?"
He sighs. "There is nothing else to tell, Demi."
My throat tightens. "I barely remember her, Marcel. We lived together but she was always working in Danvarr and I never felt like I really knew her." The admission hurts more than I expect. "I have flashes of things that do not make sense, memories of her that feel... incomplete."
For a moment Marcel says nothing. Then he pulls me into a hug and I do not resist. His arms wrap around me tightly and I lean against his chest, suddenly exhausted.
"You knew her enough," he murmurs. "She loved you more than anything else in the world, Demi. You have to believe that.."
"That is not the same as understanding her."
He rubs my back slowly. "The past cannot change anything now."
I pull away slightly. "Let me be the judge of that. Stop hiding things from me, especially when it comes to my parents."
Our eyes meet. For a moment neither of us moves. I think about the woman at the grocery store and the strange things she had said about me having a brother. Despite how insane that sounds, my heart begins to beat faster as Marcel’s actions doesn’t assuage my doubts.
Maybe this is the moment to bring it up. Instead of a direct confrontation, I choose a different approach.
"You have nothing to worry about, uncle. My health has greatly improved now and to top it all, this town is not as lonely as I expected."
He arches a brow. "Really?"
"The people here have been nothing short of kind and hospitable towards me. I often feel like I’ve known them for years. They are very welcoming."
"Wow, that is good to hear."
"In fact," I continue, "sometimes I feel so safe, almost like I have a brother watching out for me."
That’s when his body goes rigid. The reaction is immediate. His face drains of color and for a split second I see something raw in his expression; fear. Raw fear.
Quickly, Marcel rearranges his features. "What do you mean by that?"
His voice sounds tight. I shrug lightly and laugh. "I just mean that leaving Danvarr was hard. My whole life was built there and I felt like I was leaving my family."
I lean against railing. "But moving here did not feel as lonely or scary as I anticipated. The people here still make me feel...loved and protected like my Danvarr friends did."
Marcel lets out a dry laugh. A sheen of sweat has formed along his forehead. "Oh, that is good. I am glad you feel safe."
He wipes his brow with his sleeve. "I think I will stay the weekend."
"No." I cut him short before I can stop myself. "We’ve been over this. I am not a child, Uncle Marcel. I do not need babysitting."
"I was not offering babysitting."
"It feels like it."
He shakes his head and walks toward the living room, muttering something under his breath. While he does that, I slip into the kitchen and return the iron skillet where I found it. Then I pull something from my pocket; a bracelet.
I had slipped it from Marcel’s back pocket while he was hugging me. If he deemed it necessary to hide this from me, I have to know why. I am already curious about the locked room and the fact that he kept the key on him and had retrieved this bracelet from there. I have to know what makes it so special.
I steal a glance at the door, and after making sure Marcel wasn’t close, turn the small object in my palm. It is clearly handmade. Tiny wooden beads alternate with shells and pieces of polished stone to form a beautiful band. At the center, three cube letters mashed together hold a very rare name; RAZ
My breath catches. I have seen that name before. I shut my eyes and wrack my brain. Suddenly, it comes to me. It was on Marcel’s phone. He had gotten several calls from this one contact saved as Raz but when I asked about it, he said it was no one important. I had my doubts back then because Marcel always got riled up every time he answered a call from Raz. Now, seeing the name here makes my wheels turn.
Why is the name attached to something so carefully crafted by my mom? Why was it in stowed away in my mom’s room? Why is Marcel hiding it from me? My jaw hangs open in shock, anger and pain. Who exactly is Raz.
Just then, my phone rings suddenly. The sharp sound makes me jump in shock. While I dig into my purse for it, Marcel appears in the kitchen doorway. He is patting his pockets frantically, obviously searching for something.
"Looking for something" I ask him.
"My car keys," he says quickly. "I think I might have dropped them."
I nod and take my call. "Hello?"
As I walk past him, I casually toss the bracelet toward the foot of the staircase. It lands quietly near the bottom step. Then i move into the living room while Anna’s voice bursts through the speaker.
"Demi! Are you okay?"
"I am fine," I say slowly, eyes watching my uncle in the kitchen doorway. He’s definitely not looking for his car keys because he never stepped into the kitchen with them. It can only mean he’s looking for the bracelet but doesn’t want to tell me.
"I just had the worst dream," Anna adds. "You were attacked by someone in your new house. Tell me that didn’t happen."
A chill crawls down my spine. From the corner of my eye, I see Marcel crouch near the staircase. I watch his hand closes around the bracelet. He shoves it back into his pocket like a thief.
Something cold settles in my stomach as the act solidifies my suspicions. He stands and walks toward the door.
"I will see you in the morning," he hums before kissing my hair and walking away.
The door closes quietly behind him and suddenly, I feel the weight of his lies and distrust.
"Demi?" Anna calls anxiously. "Who was that? Are you okay? Say something please."
Tears stream down my eyes. Could it be true? Could I actually have a sibling in this world that my uncle heartlessly hid from me? A sibling that could have softened the blow of losing my parents, the pain of loneliness that painted my life years after? Could I truly have someone else to remember my parents by?
I sniffle, drying my eyes but before I can answer Anna properly, a strange crackle fills the phone. The static seems like the phone is being moved. Silence follows and instead of Anna’s voice, another familiar one replaces it.
A voice I know too well.
"Demi."
My heart stops.
"Ashton?" I breathe softly, tearfully.
"It is me." His tone is tight with fear. "Tell me you are okay."