When I finally pushed the blankets aside, my limbs felt heavy, but not in the drugged way they usually did. My body remembered the weight anyway. I crept toward the bedroom door and peeked down the staircase.
A faint glow spilled from the kitchen.
I held my breath and descended one step at a time. The carpet muffled my movements, but my heart thumped loud enough to make me fear he would hear it. When I reached the ground floor, I stayed in the shadows.
Silas stood at the counter with his back to me. A series of tiny glass containers lined the marble surface. Some were filled with translucent liquid. Others were empty. Labels had been peeled from my prescription bottles and tossed into a pile. He handled the vials with deliberate care. His posture was focused. Familiar in a strange way.
That was when he hummed. A soft tune, one I had heard him hum while organizing his workshop or balancing the checkbook. The casualness of it struck me harder than the sight of the chemicals on the counter. He was at ease. Completely at ease.
He reached beneath the counter and lifted a thick folder. My name was written across the front. Not printed. Not typed. Written by his hand.
I leaned forward without meaning to. My breath brushed against my lips like a warning. I could not see what was inside the folder, but I saw the way he flipped through the pages, pausing occasionally to examine notes.
My stomach twisted. Then he stopped humming.
His shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly. Slowly, as if bracing himself, he turned toward the staircase. His eyes met mine. For an instant neither of us moved.
Silas’s expression did not explode into shock. It unfolded. Surprise softened into calculation. Then settled into a calm so cold it made my fingertips go numb.
“Nora,” he said quietly. “You should be asleep.”
The sound of my own name felt foreign coming from him. I gripped the railing because my knees threatened to give way.
“What are you doing,” I whispered.
He closed the folder as if it were a bill he would finish reading later. “You were struggling. I needed to manage the situation before it grew worse.”
“Manage,” I repeated, barely breathing. “You drugged me.”
“You required stability,” he said, taking one slow step toward me. “You refused to rest. You forgot things. You grew distant. I had to intervene.”