Chapter 8
But when Marty saw Zoe's eyes, his smile froze.
There was nothing in her eyes—no fear, no shame, no anger. She seemed utterly empty, like a shell with nothing left inside.
A chill ran down Marty's spine.
He took the glass quickly and leaned back, looking away.
Something cold and strange settled over the room.
Stanley suddenly stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. Without warning, he kicked the coffee table over.
The crash was loud and violent. Crystal glasses, the liquor bottle, the coffee pot, the fruit plate—everything shattered across the floor.
Everyone flinched in surprise.
Lillian shrank back in her chair, her face pale.
Stanley's chest heaved, veins bulging on his neck.
He swept a look around the room. "Everyone out," he said, his voice rough with anger.
Marty was the first to move. He grabbed his keys and shot the others a look.
The group filed out quickly. In less than thirty seconds, the living room was empty, leaving behind nothing but broken glass and spilled liquor.
Lillian carefully stood up and edged closer to Stanley, her voice barely above a whisper. "Stanley—"
"Get out," he said without looking at her.
His eyes stayed fixed on Zoe, still on the floor.
Lillian hesitated, lips parting, but no words came out. She lowered her gaze and left.
Now only the two of them remained. Zoe was still kneeling, her knees red against the floor. She didn't move. She didn't look up.
Stanley stood in front of her, his breathing slowly settling.
He didn't even know what he was angry about. All he felt was a heavy pressure in his chest, like something was pressing down on him, stealing his air.
"Get up," he said at last, his voice dry.
Zoe rose to her feet. Her knees trembled slightly, but she stood straight.
Stanley glanced at the cut on her face. He lifted his hand as if to touch it, then stopped and let it fall.
Without another word, he turned and headed upstairs.
His footsteps pounded heavily up the stairs, each one echoing with anger.
Zoe remained where she was. She looked down at the shattered glass covering the floor.
Then she crouched down and began picking up the pieces, one by one.
The sharp edges sliced into her fingers, drawing thin lines of blood, but she didn't stop.
She gathered every shard and threw them away, then fetched a mop and cleaned up the spilled liquor and coffee until the floor was spotless.
After she finished cleaning up, she returned to the guest room.
She closed the door and slid down against it until she was sitting on the floor.
She stared at the fresh cuts on her fingers as small beads of blood formed.
Slowly, she brought her fingers to her mouth.
A metallic taste spread across her tongue.
Her depression had sunk so deep that it was starting to show in her body.
*****
It was 2:17 a.m. Zoe sat on the bed in the guest room, eyes wide open.
She got out of bed. The cold wood floor bit into her bare feet, and her toes curled on instinct.
As she walked past the master bedroom, she stopped for a second.
No light seeped out from under the door.
She could hear Lillian's steady breathing and the faint creak of the bed frame as Stanley turned over in his sleep. They were in there together.
Zoe tore her gaze away and kept moving forward.
She walked through the dining room and lounge, arriving at the study door.
The study door had a six-digit lock. She keyed in the date of Stanley's mother's death.
A soft beep sounded. The door clicked open.
She walked over to the bookshelf.
On the third shelf, she counted to the seventh book from the right—a thick, hardcover history book no one had ever bothered to open.
She pulled it out. Behind it, a thin crack ran along the back of the shelf.
She slipped her fingers inside, feeling around until she touched something small.
It was a memory card, no bigger than a fingernail.
She took it out and held it in her palm.
The second one was tucked behind the desk, in the corner where a plant sat.
There was a drainage hole at the bottom of the pot. She turned it over, pulled out the cotton stuffed inside, and dug out another memory card.
The third was hidden behind a picture frame on the top shelf.
It was a Thornton family portrait—Stanley's parents, his brother Luke, Lillian standing beside Stanley, and Zoe off to the side, squinting as she smiled.
She turned the frame over. The third card was taped to the back of the stand.
She had three memory cards now, only one more to go.
By the window stood a tall lamp. At the base, there was a small cover. She unscrewed it, reached inside, and found the fourth card tucked beside the wires.
Now she had all four.
Every one of them held recordings she had made in secret, using the security cameras Stanley had bought for her, back before they sent her away a year ago.
He'd agreed to install them because she told him she was afraid of burglars.
Stanley had no idea the cameras covered the living room, the dining room, the hallway, and even the study, recording him and Lillian all along.
Zoe sat down at the computer and turned it on.
The login password was the same—the date of Stanley's mother's death.
Stanley had used that code his whole life. It never crossed his mind that anyone would dare touch his things.
The screen lit up.