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syoddeye · 1 month

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the warren, part five - abscond

price x f!reader | 5.1k words | series page | ao3 tags: alcohol, implied domestic abuse, infidelity, unsettling vibes, darkfic. a/n: run, run, run away. mdni banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

“How long?”

“Usual.”

“So, two weeks? Three?”

“Does it fucking matter?” The bag’s zipper hisses harshly as it’s drawn shut. “You making plans?”

You take a breath and ignore the condoms sticking out of the duffel’s pouch, smoothing the quilt at the end of the bed. “No, but I’d like to plan the grocery shopping.”

He cuts you with a blank stare, then fishes out his reds and lighter. His brows lower when your lips purse, but you don’t say a word. Smoking indoors is repulsive, but it’s not worth it—not now.

“Three.” The lighter clicks. “Won’t have my phone on me. But I’ll text when I’m on my way back, so you can plan to have dinner ready.”

You rise at the beep of the coffee pot in the kitchen. It’s three am, and the sunrise is a distant thought in the deep indigo sky. You dream of fixing him decaf, of him nodding off and driving off the road. Flipping the car or soaring through the windshield. The scene is crystal clear in your imagination, vivid and visceral. With a smile, you hand him his thermos and lunch box for the road.

“Goodbye.” you murmur as he bypasses you completely, not bothering with acts of affection anymore. You watch him toss his work bags into the truck bed and flinch as he violently yanks the door open.

“And good luck.”

You watch the truck until it disappears around the bend, hand pressed to your thundering heart. It’s not him. It’s not even the same model. It’s just a white truck. There must be dozens driving around the lake right now. It’s guilt rearing its ugly head. A ghost. Of course, things remind you of him, but it’s as if kissing John brought them into focus. One man’s affection dredging the maltreatment of another.

Swallowing hard, you turn and continue. It’s Saturday, the store’s busiest day, and you cannot be late.

Sure enough, there are customers already inside. The radio by the register spouts the weather forecast, a blissful day in the mid-seventies, and transitions into an upbeat song. The smile on your face grows at the sight of John wishing a couple in hiking gear a good time on the trails. His eyes flick over their heads to you as you pass, and you feel them when you duck into the back room to hang your bag on the hook.

“Good morning.”

You turn, finding John filling the doorway, and you cannot stop yourself from glancing at his mouth. “Morning.”

“Sleep well? I know I did.”

You nod automatically, though it’s a white lie, stomach jumping at the smug tinge to his voice. You don’t recall your dreams, but you woke up with a name on your tongue like a curse, hallucinating nicotine.

“I did.” You flirt, eager to move on from memory. “Can’t imagine why.”

John nods in return, quiet for a moment of study. His eyes pinch a fraction. “Don’t s’pose you’ve heard the news?”

Your brows raise. News?

His expression softens, and a hand finds your elbow, tugging you close. “Well…”

It’s terrible, and it happens every summer. As perennial as the balsamroot or beardtongues growing on the mountain.

An inevitability when you mix alcohol, winding roads, and the brand of arrogance unique to young men, so John says. He consoles you, arms encircling you the second your lip quivers. The three faces of the men are fresh, and it isn’t a great leap for your mind to pulverize and paint them bloody. To bend and wrap limbs around their crumpled Jeep. John whispers comforts in your ear and wipes the tears you shed for the strangers, as unpleasant as they were.

Someone raps their knuckles on the counter. John takes the time to kiss you anyway.

It leaves you dizzy when he finally breaks it to assist the customer. You lean on the wall, head slotted between coat hooks, and collect yourself.

Of course, you did not like the strangers and did not care to know them. You admittedly wished them ill or injury, but for their short lives to be snuffed out as gruesomely as they were? No one deserves that.

A steady flow of customers eventually eases the weight, their excitable moods, chattering about their vacation plans. John claps a hand on your shoulder in the afternoon and tells you to take the rest of the day, says it’s sweet you’re so tender-hearted, like a good girl.

In his fashion, he doesn’t leave time to process that.

“Come back at close. I’d like to talk about last night.”

The sound of gravel crunching lifts your head from your book, and you tense at the sight of a dark-colored sedan cruising toward the cabin. Tinted windows obscure the driver, and as they idle, you tuck your bookmark and stand. You wish the screened porch was actually capable of keeping anything out.

The car shuts off as the driver pops the door. It’s no stranger. It’s the man from the Echo. Phil.

Your stomach drops.

His smile is brilliant, even in the shade. A pair of sunglasses rest atop his head, flattening a tuft of sandy hair. “Afternoon, miss.” He calls out, strolling leisurely. With his hands planted on his narrow hips, it’s difficult to ignore the holster. You want to believe he’s simply a local, most of them armed to the teeth, but the tucked-in t-shirt emblazoned with pine trees and the words ‘ I had the pine of my life in Ponderosa ' screams ‘not from here’. You briefly wonder if he sees the same thing, looking at you.

You offer a smile anyway. “Hello again.”

“Hope you don’t mind me butting in on your afternoon, but I was hoping you had a minute for a quick chat.”

How he acquired your address and directions, you don’t know. “May I ask what about?”

He smirks and fishes out a thick wallet. He flips it open and presses it to the screen with a chuckle. Three letters in big, bold print. Your prediction manifest. “An investigation I’m assistin’ with.” He dips his head toward the front door. “Mind if I come in, Miss…?”

The faint blare of a horn echoes from the recesses of your mind. His question slams into you one syllable at a time, and the blank space he leaves for your name grabs you by the throat. He isn’t a backwoods landlord. This is someone who’ll run your name through some database. Who has access to records and resources.

So you give him your name, the real one, and hope for the best.

Phil Graves.

A grim name. Hokey, too.

It feels as though you’ve plunged to the bottom of the deepest part of the lake, blood colder than glacial ice. He hasn’t elaborated on what sort of investigation an agency like the FBI would open out here. Nevertheless, you fix him a coffee with four sugars. It’s tooth-rotting, stirring in too many crystals to possibly dissolve, yet he accepts it with a warm thank you.

You stare, a tiny smile glued to your face. Phil’s handsome, you admit. The scar on his cheek and notched ear give him a roguish quality, an edge to his otherwise clean-cut look. You peek at the kitschy shirt.

“I know, not my color.” He jokes. “Tryin’ to blend in. Act as the locals do.”

Having lived among them for weeks, you’re confident in deeming his efforts a failure.

“Y’know, the coffee shop ‘cross the lake makes a good cup. Ever been?” You shake your head. “Shame. Now…” He sets the mug aside to place his phone on the low table. “Mind if I record our discussion? Sharp as I am, I find listening back to these things particularly illuminating.”

“I suppose, but could you tell me what this is about?”

He takes it as consent and taps record . “Certainly. Repeat your name for the recording, Miss…?” His eyes trace your figure in a study as you repeat it. “Although I cannot divulge the original purposes for my traveling to this corner of the country, I was asked to assist with a crash that occurred at approximately zero two hundred. Normally below my paygrade,” He chuckles, “But I thought, hell, I got the time.”

The Jeep. “I heard about that. I thought it was fairly straightforward from what was said on the radio. Drunk driving?”

Phil nods. “Awful thing and under normal circumstances, yes, it would be straightforward. Open and shut, but due to my other work, we’re exhausting all possibilities before calling it.”

Normal circumstances. The phone’s recorder waveform steadily scrolls by. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain what I can, sugar.” His smile is as practiced and patronizing as it was at the diner. “Two witnesses. First, a hiker camping near the crash site. They reportedly heard at least two bikes racing before the wreck. Then, they heard them come to a stop, idlin’ for several minutes.”

He pauses, almost expectantly, as if you’re supposed to say something.

“Maybe the bikers called in the accident?”

Phil shakes his head. “No, see, after they apparently stopped, there was—and, I’m real sorry if you’re the sensitive type—screaming. Someone was alive in the wreckage.”

A wave of nausea sinks you further into the cushions. “Screaming?”

“Yep. Then it got quiet, and the bikes continued on their way.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, tongue drying, uncertain as to why Phil’s telling you all this.

“The second witness called in and stated you got into it with those unfortunates earlier in the day.”

Fear pins you to your seat. As if every tissue in your body calcifies instantly, your heart sinking like a stone, and crashing through your rib cage. A stuttering nothing leaves your mouth, a single sound of panic and disbelief. He cannot honestly believe you were involved. What if he’s already looked you up, and only asked for your name for confirmation? What if there’s a bulletin? If he’s notified—

“Can you verify that claim, sugar?”

“Yes, well, no.”

“Yes and no? Which is it?”

You clear your throat to buy a second to compose yourself, but it comes out in a tremulous flood. You chide yourself for folding so easily. “Yes, they came to the store, um, Grouse Grocery? On the main road? I work there, but we didn’t ‘get into it’. They were rude, but they paid for everything and left within five minutes.”

“How’d they leave?”

“They got into a Jeep.”

“Did anyone leave after them? Did you see anyone follow them?”

“I didn’t watch after they left. I was simply glad they did.”

“You said they were ‘untoward’. Elaborate, will you? They hit on you?” He takes a long, loud sip of his coffee and smacks his lips.

“‘Scuse me, pumpkin.”

Pumpkin. You blink, stepping away from the coolers, water cup crinkling in your hand.

The man stoops to grab a can from the melting ice, flicking his fingers free of droplets. He catches you watching and smirks, standing close when he straightens.

“‘Like your dress.” He drawls.

It’s tangerine. Soft, secondhand, and newly mended. You fixed the zipper that morning. “Thanks.”

You expect him to leave after that, rejoin the throng of bodies crammed into the house. Leave you to your wallflower habits. You might still live in the Iron Range if he did.

Instead, he peppers you with questions. You don’t realize he’s flirting until he plants a hand over your head and smiles. All the other boys you’ve fooled around with were mean first. Teasing. He’s different. Polite, charming, and a little rugged. He asks for your plans for the summer and doesn’t make you feel stupid to admit you don’t have any. There’s no job or dorm room waiting. Your father forbade both.

“What about you?”

He licks his teeth. “Heading west in a couple months. Silver’s coming back. Got the last of my certifications and an offer out at a mine. Plenty of money to be made.” he shrugs. “I’m just blowing off steam ‘til then.”

Embarrassment rides on the butterflies in your stomach. A real adult, a man—one with a future and direction. A ticket out.

“Well, one of them more so than his buddies. He called me ‘baby’ and said I was cute,” You hug yourself, shoulders drawing up. “He said he’d find me at close.”

Phil squints and drapes his arms over his knees. “What happened after they left?”

“I kept working. When my boss got in, he decided to close early so I wouldn't have to see those guys again.”

“Who’s your boss?”

A glint in Phil’s eye suggests he knows precisely who owns the store. This, too, must be protocol. Part of his official investigative record. “John Price.”

His lip quirks. “John Price. I’m familiar. Awfully nice of him, to close early and take you home.”

You smile nervously, though you’re unsure why. John paid you a kindness, which led to another. Your belly warms at the memory of him kissing you, but it melts away like film—you didn’t mention John giving you a lift. Pain blooms in your cheek as you sink your teeth into it. Phil finishes the dregs of his coffee, smirking into the mug, seemingly relishing your look of realization. You reach for whatever bit of nerve you have left.

“Do y’know if anyone in town owns a bike? I’d be interested in speaking with them, too.”

“I don’t.”

“What about dirt bikes? There are trails an hour west, and a fork that’s maybe, what, a half hour out?”

Sweat prickles the back of your neck at the words. It’s a fight to keep your face plain and sweet, to stifle the acrid taste of panic. You do know someone with a dirt bike, a man whose scarred skin and jagged features discourage examination. Whose mouth curled when he got a good look at you, cementing that unexplained aversion. An aversion that eddies out of your head and through your teeth.

“Nope. No one.”

Phil’s scrutiny needles at your resolve, testing for weakness. You think he might find it the longer his silence drags on. Agents and officers are trained for this, and you’re…you. You hold yourself tight enough to bruise.

He sucks his teeth as he stops the recording. The phone disappears as he stands. “Thank you for your cooperation and hospitality.”

You escort him to the front door, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.

Phil rests on the frame and picks at the peeling paint on the jamb. “Can I ask you something off record, sugar? You do proper research before comin’ out here? I know you’re not from here. You’re not…” His voice trails, scanning every feature. “Like them. The locals.”

You did. You aren’t the most savvy user of the Internet; you mostly peruse message boards for jobs and monitor your meager bank account. The homestead didn’t have Wi-Fi, dial-up, or any other means. The satellite dish on the roof was for cable, which was disconnected during your stints alone. You had managed, made do.

“I don’t follow, Mr. Graves.”

“Phil, sugar,” he corrects. “What I’m getting at is, you might want to consider about pullin’ up stakes. Find somewhere else to bed down for a while. Grouse Bay, Ponderosa—the area’s a breeding ground for bad shit. One too many ‘accidents’ if you ask me.”

You frown. “It’s not that bad. It’s summer. People make stupid decisions.”

Phil’s perpetual smile shrinks and tightens into a line. “I’m not just talkin’ about those boys. You oughta crack a book or take a gander at the microfilm at the library. Learn history.”

Despite your disinclination to listen to him, curiosity stings like a side stitch.

“I can tell you more if you’d like.” His mouth splits into a toothy grin. The severity gone. “How’s about we grab coffee? I could accompany you to the library.”

You immediately think of two men who wouldn’t care for that, but mention only one. Given what you’re doing with John, it's hypocritical, but Phil doesn’t need to know the extent of your transgressions. “Thank you for the offer, but my husband–”

“Husband?” He echoes. “Don’t see a ring on your finger. Don’t see a man around. If you’re not interested, you don’t have to lie. Not to me.”

You hope a sliver of honesty keeps you on his good side and him out of your hair. “I’m not lying. I’m here alone because I’m– we’re going through a rough patch. We decided a summer apart would do us good.”

The bite of his dissection returns, and you debate how genuine his interest is. If all his talk about the towns and apparent concern is legitimate. His nose scrunches.

“Shame. Well, should the rough patch become rougher,” He produces a business card. “And you want that coffee after all, text or call.”

You accept the card and a loud meow interrupts.

Phil looks over his shoulder, and his smile falls. Five ferals lounge on the hood and roof of the sedan. The skinny calico stands, claws extending from her paws as she stretches.

“Fucking flea-bitten…” He mutters and swivels back. “Listen miss, considering the sensitivity of our conversations on both our parts, I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit as our little secret. Can I trust you to do that?”

The insinuation isn’t lost on you. Both our parts. It's not that you need motivation on that front; you have no plans to mention Phil to John, Kate, or anyone in town. Not with that pale brute lurking about. A twinge of worry seizes your heart—you can’t warn John, and he has no clue. “I won’t say a word.”

“Atta girl. Have a pleasant evening.”

You think if he wore one, Phil’d tip his hat. He’d wave it at the cats, who take their time abandoning his car. You watch until he disappears around the curve of the driveway, up the hill.

Alone again, you stew.

You’re as sober as the judge who marries you in the courthouse when you pledge eternity. The strangers you asked to witness the moment clap awkwardly as your new husband reels you in for a kiss, the taste of cheap champagne on his lips. The man admires your whirlwind romance, and you can’t disagree, given you didn’t have time to find a dress. The woman nervously comments about having a daughter your age and squeezes your shoulder a little too tight.

A week later, you flee the plains for the desert and spend your honeymoon camping in the truck bed.

After twenty-six hours of driving, you reach the little white house he told you about. He carries you over the threshold and insists on christening the space. He watches from the floor, wrapped in a sheet, as you scamper through the empty rooms and describe what each one will hold.

He joins you at the mouth of a small bedroom upstairs, across from the primary bedroom.

“Dusty Jr. will sleep right here.”

You beam up at him. “If we’re lucky.”

His hand curls over your nape. “We will be.”

You find John at the bottom of the hill, dressed in a fresh shirt with his hair combed. Your fretting over what to wear seems justified.

“Don’t you look nice.”

It’s a dress he’s seen you in before, a modest dark blue number that falls below the knee. The flattery does little to soothe the buzzing under your skin, but it’s appreciated. You spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze after Phil left, feeling like a mouse batted around by a bored cat. His interrogation dredged memories you’d rather leave buried and roused questions you don’t know if you want the answers to. Your turmoil translates to a meek thank you.

John walks you to the Foxhole, pressing a hand to your mid-back all the way to the usual booth.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” It’s not a complete lie. John’s knees touching yours under the table is grounding, the point of contact slowly leaching your worry. “I needed that break today. Thank you.”

“Yeah? What did you get up to?”

I’d appreciate it if you kept my visit as our little secret.

For all your contemplation, you haven’t thought of how to subtly warn John about his acquaintance in a way that won’t incriminate you. And if you are wrong and it’s a misunderstanding, you don’t want to compromise what you have.

“Oh, nothing special. I finished my last book.” you smile. “I’m excited to open a library account next week.”

His eyes flit over you in an elongated pause. “Right.”

Kate drops off John’s ale minutes later, and you surprise them both by ordering a cider. John smirks as you sip.

“Thought so.”

“Thought what?”

“You don’t drink on the first date, which makes this the second.”

You hide a smile behind your glass, the coolness dampening the surge of warmth triggered by the sound of his laugh. How far you’ve come with him, it’s no small feat. With his rough edges, you’d come to know him as the type of man who’d only soften and yield with time. Someone stubborn and terse, but you’d always know where you’d stand with him. An honesty you need.

“I suppose it is.”

“Which leads me to what I wanted to discuss.” He leans on the table, forearms bracketing its width. His voice lowers to a hair above a whisper. “Last night. I know I said I can be patient and I will be, but I have questions. Things I want to clarify, because I want to know if this,” he gestures between you. “Stands a chance of going somewhere.”

It’s only fair. You’ve never rebuffed a man, at least not successfully, and with the deadline of summer’s end, of course he’d have questions.

“Okay, um, shoot.”

“Did I overstep?”

“No, not at all. I just—I haven’t done this in a long time. Been, um, close with a man.”

His cheek bulges with his tongue, working over a thought. “May I ask why? I find it hard to believe, girl as pretty as you.”

“John,” you laugh softly, admonishing him with a shake of your head. The mirth short-lived. “You’re kind. My situation is...complicated.”

“So there is a situation.”

You stare into the pale gold of your glass, shoulders tightening. You stepped in it now. John’s done so much for you. More than Dusty did in years. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I won’t.”

You don’t deserve his earnestness.

With a deep breath, you confess. “Before I came here, I left my h-husband.” You trace the rim to avoid his gaze. “I left, um, a letter stating that I don’t want money or the house. I don’t want anything except to be left alone. I said that if he files, I won’t contest it.” You glance and sputter at the inscrutable look on John’s face. Each syllable feels heavier and more inadequate than the last. “I’m hoping he takes it as a ‘good riddance’ and proceeds without me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

You realize the irony of betting on an unreliable man. “If he doesn’t, well, every penny I make will go to a lawyer.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not once. I made it clear I wasn’t coming back. I won’t ever go back. He has no idea where I am, either.”

A silence stretches between you and through the din of the bar. Your hands fall to your lap, twisting the hem of your dress, studying him intently for some clue. His expression remains unreadable, calm in a way that makes your stomach cramp and your heartbeat climb to your throat. Each passing second amplifies the tension, the wait unbearable, until finally—

“I can see why you’d hide something like that.” John sighs. “I’m surprised, sweetheart, but I understand. I forgive you for keeping secrets.”

The knot in your stomach loosens with his absolution. You take his hand when he offers it, palm enveloping yours, commanding your undivided attention.

“I’ve learned that at times, a measure of cruelty is necessary, if meted out properly by careful hands. I assume your husband deserves your abandonment. You don’t seem the type to make decisions lightly.”

“I’m not.”

“Disloyalty seems unnatural to you too, at least, not without reason.”

“No.”

“Did he–”

“‘M I interruptin’?”

A deep and rumbling voice nearly startles you out of your chair, hand sliding out of John’s to stop your glass from tipping. Craning your neck, you instantly break into a cold sweat.

“Simon. Didn’t see you come in.”

“Reckon you wouldn’t, with your distraction.”

The man— Simon , is more monstrous up close. His face is a roadmap of scars, twisting like roots across his jaw and over the bridge of his nose. His body eclipses the rest of the room, darkening the table with mass alone. You can’t help but stare, pulse quickening, imagining what it would take to leave marks like that on a person. You desperately hope Phil’s wrong or that his witness proves unreliable. You would not want this beast for an enemy.

You’re introduced, and to your relief, there is no handshake.

“Ran that errand.”

John reclines in his seat, arms crossing. “Any trouble?”

“None. Later?” Simon’s eyes cut to you.

“Tomorrow.”

The big man chuckles, mouth twisting into an approximation of a smile. “Right. Tomorrow. If ya need me….” Simon lumbers away, heading for a stool at the far edge corner where Kate plants a dark ale.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You snap to John, a wry grin on his face.

“Don’t worry ’bout him. Looks that way ’cause of a bad accident some years back.” He nods in Simon’s direction. “He’s harmless. He helps me with the rabbits.”

You fidget with your glass, unable to picture that behemoth handling such fragile creatures. John’s vouching puts you more at ease. “I didn’t say anything.“

He laughs and reclaims your hand. “Sweet girl, I’m only teasin’. Why don’t we get some air, hm?”

You politely jump at the chance—anything to put distance between yourself and the suspect at the bar. John leads you past a leering Simon and into the woods behind the Foxhole. A dirt path cuts toward the lake, and the moon casts a white glow on the water, providing just enough visibility. Lights from campsites and cabins dot the far side of the bay.

John slots you at his side, rubbing your arm with a callused hand. You’re content to remain silent for a few minutes to let your heart return to a steadier rhythm. John’s a solid place to rest.

“I am sorry for lying,” you finally whisper. “But I was scared.”

“You didn’t trust me, and that’s okay.” John corrects. “You learned, didn’t you? That I��m here for you?”

You nod sheepishly, tucking further into him. “I didn’t think you’d want me after you found out.”

Gently, he peels you from his side and chucks your chin. He stares down his nose with an amused glint. “Oh, I want you, sweetheart,” His other hand finds your waist. “Question is, do you want me? Do you want this?”

You haven’t wanted in a long time. You thought you’d forgotten how to, convinced yourself you didn’t want or need anything. But it’s muscle memory, surging up to kiss him, and he meets you halfway.

It’s different from the first time. It’s deliberate, borderline reverent, and encourages you to slow down. Reassuring in how it doesn’t feel like he’ll disappear or change his mind. His beard scratches your face as he gradually deepens it, his tongue sliding over your lips and over yours. You taste the citrus of his ale and tobacco in a way you don’t mind.

Breaking for air, you remind him once more. “Are you sure? I am…married.”

John’s hands flex on your waist and band reflexively in pure possession. “And it sounds like you’re decided on the future of that, depending on what your courts rule.” He touches your foreheads. “I’ve always been of the mind that marriage is a piece of paper. Something neat and tidy for some suit to file, but it interferes with what’s natural. As far as I’m concerned, you aren’t married,” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re with me. If you want to be.”

It isn’t that simple. You know it’s not. Then John kisses you again, and you wonder.

By the time you part ways at the end of the cabin’s drive, your lips are swollen and spit-slick. John stopped you no less than five times to kiss you stupid, chasing every thought of the wreck, the investigation, and Simon out of your head. Shame can’t reach you either, not through the rose-colored haze around your head.

You can tell John wants to follow you inside and share your bed, but despite all your necking, you’re not there yet.

“I am interested, I really am, but I need time.”

“We’ll move at your pace,” His fingers rub circles in your hips. “Gonna spoil you, love. You’ve been good for me, I want to return the favor.”

You huff. “Me? You’re the one who’s employed me, helped me with my car, ferry me around…”

“Easy to do, ‘cause I’m fond of you, pretty girl,” He murmurs into your cheek. “You do so much for me.”

“Like what?”

“More than you know.” He brushes his lips over your forehead, then gingerly turns you around to face the cabin, lit by the light he fixed. “Now. Off with you, ‘fore I change my mind and haul you off like a caveman.”

You laugh but dutifully say goodnight and leave him at the end of the drive. You wave from the doorway, then watch him head off. A contented sigh erupts as you flick on the light and throw the deadbolt, practically twirling into the bedroom.

It’s not until you strip off your dress that a disquieting chill creeps over you. You study the bedroom, uncertain if you’re imagining things or not. If the subtle disarray—a crooked quilt, a drawer left open an inch, your laptop further down the bed than you remember—is real or trivial. But the air feels thicker and heavier, and you can’t shake the sensation as if you’ve arrived late to your own home.

Your footsteps echo too loudly in the uneasy calm. You grab a glass of water, but you pause as you turn from the sink.

The corner of the rug in the living room is flipped. There’s a seam in the floor.

#price x reader #price x f! reader #john price x f!reader #john price x reader #the warren

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