Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1) -
Goldsin: Chapter 30
I bite down on the cookie.
Chocolate crumbs fall on my pants as I swing my legs. My phone is beside me on the kitchen counter, and I peek at it every three seconds, waiting for the screen to light up and for Julian’s name to appear.
I haven’t heard from him since last week when . . . everything changed.
Why hasn’t he called? At least to let me know how his mother is doing. Although I already know—Valentine told me. They brought her back home this morning. She still has a long way to go, but she’s alive.
He could have at least sent me a quick text.
Maybe he’s still mad. But it’s not like I personally stabbed his mother.
He warned me what would happen if she died, but what happens now that she didn’t?
I grab another cookie from the jar and bite down aggressively, my feet bouncing impatiently as I eat all my frustration away.
I’m on my last bite when I hear the metallic sound of keys and then the thud of the front door closing. Valentine’s looming figure appears next, and he stops to stare at me, clearly not expecting to replace me here.
Raising my brow, I watch him as my fingers search for the next cookie to taste.
Without voicing a word, he opens a kitchen cabinet and pours himself a glass of rum. A golden droplet slides down the side of the short glass.
“Needed something stronger than coffee today?” I tease, though concern laces my voice.
Exhaling a long breath, he hangs his head. Warm light from the living room paints the deep lines on his face. His tiredness is evident in the dullness of his skin.
“Long day,” he says faintly before straightening his posture and taking a sip. “I don’t think even coffee would take the edge off today.” He tilts the glass in his hand, twirling the liquid inside of it.
Taking another cookie, I bite into it.
Valentine looks more than just exhausted—he looks beaten down. His usual strong posture now sags with whatever weight he’s holding alone.
“How many of those have you eaten already?”
“Excuse me?” I say between a mouthful of cookie.
He eyes the half-eaten chocolate chip cookie in my hand and looks back at me, arching his brow.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to ask those kinds of questions to a woman?”
Mumbling something under his breath, he takes a sip of his drink before making a show of rolling his eyes.
My mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile curving my lips.
But just like that, it disappears. My chest tightens, twisting as I remember Julian.
“Is Julian okay?”
“Considering his mother nearly died,”—he takes another sip, tasting the liquid without even a hiss—“he’s holding up as well as anyone could.”
“And a dead father.” The words flow out of me.
“Right, and a dead father.” Valentine sighs, rubbing his temples.
“Maybe I should go see him.”
Or maybe he should have called, the intrusive voice says.
Valentine nods. “Couldn’t hurt,” he says before downing the rest of his rum. “He wasn’t even at the funeral today.”
My heart drops.
“What? There was a funeral today?” Hurt washes over me. No one told me.
Why?
Cursing under his breath, he sets the glass down. “Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been so busy with everything, keeping the press and the police at bay. I thought someone else would have told you.”
“Great,” I mumble, picking at the crumbs on my sweatpants.
Not even Valentine thought about sparing the time to let me know.
Someone died. Don’t be so full of yourself, the voice in my head says.
What is Julian thinking right now? He doesn’t know I wasn’t told. He probably thinks I didn’t care to attend. And I don’t care—they could have done whatever they liked with Lucian’s body. I just wanted to be there for Julian.
Just then my phone lights up.
Impatiently, I pick it up, fingers dirty with cookie crumbs and chocolate stains. I expect to see Julian’s name, but another Harrow name appears instead.
Adrian.
Why is Adrian texting me?
“Meet me now on the floor below ours. Need to talk.”
I reread his message. There’s no mention of the subject or why the unexpected urgency.
My curiosity piqued, I hop off the counter. I could meet up with him and then head to their apartment to finally see how Julian is doing.
“I’m going to meet Adrian real quick,” I say over my shoulder as I walk toward the door.
My hand is on the doorknob when Valentine unexpectedly calls out, “Aurelia, wait!”
Something in his voice stops me.
“There—” In his haste he knocks his glass off the counter, sending it crashing to the floor, where it shatters into a million pieces. “Fuck.” He hisses, looking down at the mess he made.
I feel my fingers twitching with impatience and swing the door open before rushing out. “You can tell me later,” I yell as I run down the corridor to the elevator, leaving the front door open.
I press the button for the twenty-ninth floor over and over again, until the elevator doors close. Turning around, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing light green sweatpants with an oversize white shirt, and my red hair is pinned in a messy bun.
I may have missed the funeral, but I play the part of the sad family friend perfectly.
Friend? No. “The culprit of the attack” sounds better.
The elevator doors open and I replace myself in a corridor bare of doors. Walking farther in, I brush my fingers over the freshly painted walls. They probably joined the apartments together, creating one.
The Harrows own the building, so they can mix and match the place however they like.
I’ve been walking for what feels like forever when a black door catches my attention.
Finally.
The door is unlocked, and when I walk in, I expect to replace Adrian waiting for me.
Instead all I see is a room covered in plastic sheets, buckets of maroon paint waiting to be dipped with a paintbrush.
Why does Adrian want to talk to me here?
The sound of my weight crushing the plastic sheet under my feet fills the silent room as I venture farther in.
“Adrian?” I call out. “For someone who urgently needs to talk to me, you’re making this quite the mystery.”
My foot knocks against a paint roller on the floor, nearly making me stumble.
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath.
Thud.
A noise drifts past the double doors on the far side of the room.
“Adrian?”
Sighing at the lack of a response, I make my way toward the door.
“Did anyone ever tell you how exasperating you are?” I push the doors open and cross my arms when I see him just standing there in the middle of the room, his back to me.
A bed stands on the left side of the empty room. There’s no furniture—if you don’t count the metallic nightstand holding a lamp and a plastic cup of water.
“You said you needed to talk to me, so . . . here I am.” I close the door behind me as I lean my weight against it. “Adrian?”
He moves his finger almost imperceptibly.
“Is everything okay?”
Did something else happen? My spine tingles with dread.
I move away from the door. “Adrian, seriously, what’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t move.
“Can you at least look at me?” Frustration grows deep within me.
His shoulders fall, and with heavy steps he turns toward me.
Bile rises in my throat.
His blue eyes are as vast as the ocean, lips parted as he gasps for air.
But it’s the hand clutching his stomach and the blood gliding from his lower abdomen that rips a scream out of me.
“Adrian!” I rush to his side. “What happened?”
My breath hitches as his body falls on me. I wrap my arms around him and struggle to keep him on his feet as his blood seeps through his clothes onto mine.
He looks at me, eyes pleading for help. Fear clutches my heart as I try to think of what I can do. But I can’t seem to think. For the first time ever, someone is dying in front of me and I don’t know what to do.
I immediately thrust my hand into my sweatpants pocket but replace it empty. My phone isn’t there. I search the other pocket, patting around, hoping to replace it, but I know it’s not there. How did I leave it behind? How stupid can I possibly be? I always bring it everywhere with me. Yet I had to mindlessly rush out of the house this time.
Despair starts to gnaw at my insides.
“Tell me what to do,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Please, Adrian. Tell me how I can help you.”
His hand grips my shoulder and pain shoots right through me. His legs give out, and we both fall to the floor.
It only takes me a second to forget about the pain pulsing in my ankle. Instead I’m too focused on him. I kneel in front of him, pressing my hands on the seeping wound, but the blood keeps flowing out. With all the force I apply, I can’t undo this.
“Adrian, stay with me!” I yell as I watch his eyes flutter closed. “Stay with me,” I whisper before shouting with all my strength, “Help! Someone help us!”
I feel lightheaded, my vision blurring as I push my hands over the hole on his lower abdomen.
Adrian grunts, his mouth opening and closing on empty words. His eyes burn with something else that mixes with the fear and the pain that should be there.
“Talk to me,” I beg, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Please, just talk to me. Don’t close your eyes.”
I can see him trying to refrain from falling asleep. From giving up. From dying.
Cradling his head in my lap, a touch of hope rises within me as I remember about his phone. I pat around his trousers in search of it, but I only replace empty pockets and a heavy sense of despair.
His body quivers, and I know I’m running out of time.
He’s too heavy—I can’t carry him out of here. But I also can’t leave him here alone while I call for help. What if he dies while I’m away? I can’t let him die alone in this cold room.
“Adrian.” I caress his cheek. I need to distract him. “Do you remember the time you made fun of me because I didn’t know how to ride a bike?”
I swallow down the lump in my throat, brushing away my tears with the back of my hand before they fall on him and force a reassuring smile.
He coughs. “You . . . you were sixteen.”
Warmth spreads in my chest at hearing his voice. “And you were such an ass.”
His mouth curves into a lopsided grin, and I lie to myself that we aren’t on the floor of an unknown apartment as his last breaths heave out of him. Instead I pretend we’re at our favorite Italian restaurant, making fun of the tourists as they share plates of spaghetti and meatballs.
I lie to myself and think of those years when I didn’t hate spending time with him. When he gave me the love I sought, even though I knew in the back of my mind he didn’t truly love me.
I lie to myself and think of the first night we slept together, and how gentle he was with me. How gentle he always was with me before the final two years, when I couldn’t live with the thought he was trapped with me anymore.
Blood bubbles out of his mouth, and I’m brought back to the present.
“Tell me what happened. Can you tell me who did this to you?” I murmur.
If I can’t save him, maybe I can exact my revenge the only way I know how.
My vision blurs with tears as I watch him fight to speak through the blood seeping from his mouth. I desperately wipe it away.
“It’s all right. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. Don’t force yourself.”
But he doesn’t listen to me.
His gaze falls to my right and remains there until I see the gun lying there. Then he turns to me and chokes out, “T-take it a-and l-leave.”
The hairs on my arms prickle at his warning. “I can’t leave you.”
“You’ll d-die.” He chokes on his blood, spitting more of it out. “You a-are nex—”
A whisper of breath leaves his mouth, and he closes his eyes.
“Adrian . . .” I whisper.
“Adrian?” I scream.
“Adrian!” I shake his body, a sob rising in my throat, but he remains still, his body slack.
No.
An ache pushes against my heart as sobs rock my chest. I stroke his cheeks, soaking up the warmth still radiating from his dead body.
“I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t save him. I should have saved him.
“I’m sorry.” My voice wobbles as I lean down and kiss his cheek.
My lips tingle, and I brush my fingertips over them.
He didn’t shave this morning.
And he won’t tomorrow.
Tears blur my vision, my heart turning cold at the realization.
“I’m sorry.”
Glancing one last time at him, I close my eyes.
Before the sound of something jolts me toward the other door connected to the room. I didn’t notice it when I walked in—I was too preoccupied with Adrian’s strange attitude.
His earlier warning echoes in my mind, and I scramble toward the gun.
Picking it up with trembling hands, I stand back on my feet, pointing the gun at whoever is waiting behind the door.
At whoever killed Adrian.
I wait.
My chest rises and falls while fresh tears run down my cheeks, and I dry them with the sleeve of my shirt.
The door creaks open, the sound sending shivers down my spine as I steady my grip on the gun. My breath is heaving, but I hold it in, waiting for whoever is behind it to reveal themselves so I can exhale, aim, and shoot.
But a voice reaches me first, setting my nerves on fire. Stealing my breath altogether.
“Oh, look what you’ve done.”
I know this voice. I’ve heard it many times before.
The person steps forward, tsking at the body lying between us on the floor.
Not just a body. Her son.
Lady Harrow stares back at me. The playful smile curving her lips vanishes as her distant gaze drills into mine. “If only you’d never been born, none of this would have happened.”
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