Six Minutes.
It takes me a while to get past the first chapter, even though it isn’t long. Every paragraph, I have to pause, take a deep breath, and stop myself from getting flashbacks of the victims’ faces or the members of the public that came to find me, before I continue reading.
After the first chapter of a man burying a body, we’re taken back to three months in the past.
That’s when I start noticing a pattern.
A few words are underlined in a red pencil crayon. Others are circled.
Emptiness.
Death.
Life.
Need.
Reason.
Strange.
Following the trails of such words distracts me from the flow of the book and I find myself flipping pages just so I can find the rest of the words.
What could this mean?
I touch my watch, trying to put everything I know thus far together.
Alicia’s father was abusive. Mum told her to cut all ties with me — which she didn’t. She suffered from depression and insomnia, amongst other things.
She read such books and used the red marker to highlight things, which I’m sure means something.
With every new piece of information I learn, the hole that is Alicia’s life keeps getting bigger. It’s like I know nothing about the real her.
A sound comes from down the hall and I slam the books shut, putting them back how I found them.
I peek out from the door in case Jonathan is there. No one. Phew.
Sneaking out, I turn around to close the door as quietly as I possibly can.
“What are you doing?”
I yelp like a girlie girl at the strong voice coming from behind me. Damn Jonathan.
You know what? Enough. It’s not like I’m doing something wrong.
Facing him, I cross my arms over my chest. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m paying you a visit.”
“Paying me a visit?” He raises a brow.
“Yeah.” I brush past him and head towards his room, which is the last one to the right side of the corridor. I figured that out in one of my earlier snooping sessions.
This is a bit out of the blue, but it’s part of my ‘pushing the tyrant’ plan.
I stand in the middle of his room. It’s the same size as mine with a high platform bed and a tall French door that I’m sure leads to the balcony. The walls and sheets and even the carpet are different nuances of grey. Like his eyes. Fitting.
I don’t have to wait long for Jonathan to follow after me, but he doesn’t close the door. His height fills the entrance, and he appears straight out of a fashion show with his pressed trousers and grey shirt. Only Jonathan would look completely presentable after a long day at work.
“What do you think you’re doing, Aurora?”