The Devil & Me

Chapter Fourteen: Exile

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There were two things that I feared on my walk home: my mother's boyfriend and Cassius Ambrose. My mother's boyfriend was an obvious one. He'd slapped me, then he'd beaten on my door. Why I feared Cassius Ambrose wasn't as simple. Something about the whole thing just made me...uneasy. His family was kind, with the exception of Liliana (which could be a sign of something under the surface). He was attentive, deliberate. He'd apologized, for what that was worth. But there was something in the pit of my stomach because all the cases of uncanny resemblances and familiarity rang alarm bells. Something was off. And I felt paranoid for thinking so, stupid for thinking so. But the feeling only grew.

I stepped off the train at about ten in the morning. The walk home was fifteen minutes beyond that. I had to have been walking to my execution, in the warming sun of what had been a cool morning. The street was as noisy as it could ever be⁠⁠—in the rushing and running that came with the work cycle⁠⁠—but the air was quiet, still, at least in my mind. My mom would be home. And likely, so would he.

He was. And he opened the door when I buzzed it. He looked at me, eyes glassy and veiny, as though he had not slept, and turned around. "Your daughter is back," he yelled out. I stepped in, and moved to the side, shoes still on my feet like I needed to flee.

He came away from the door and kept looking at me, hangings in his pockets, face unshaven and showing a shadow. But he didn't speak, not until my mother came around the corner from her room.

"You're back." She glimpsed me up and down. "Where did you go."

"A friend's house."

"Which friend."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." Her voice was full of steel. "It does."

I glanced at Matthew. He told her Cassius came up here. "A friend from school," I said.

She sighed and nodded to the couch. "We should sit down."

We ended up in a sort of circle around the coffee table with my mother and Matthew sitting on the couch and me in a chair that I dragged over from the kitchen. My mother's hands are tightly pressed together, working in and out of themselves, while Matthew stares above my head and into the wall.

"Last night, I heard that you and Matthew had a disagreement⁠⁠—"

"He slapped me," I said. "To the floor."

"After you came home in the middle of the night," Matthew said.

"Well, I'm not a young child."

"Camille," my mother warned. She smoothed down her braids and breathed in deep. "I know before when it was the two of us, you were used to coming and going when you pleased⁠⁠—"

"—like a responsible person⁠⁠," I said.

"—like a thug," Matthew finished.

Mom put her hands up to quiet us both. "But now, this will be a two-parent household and you have to get used to rules," she said. "Fall back. You're not a grown woman. Respect your elders. And by no means will any slapping happen again⁠⁠—"

"Of course, it won't, because he has to go," I said. Matthew pressed forward, but Mom held him back with one arm. "He slapped me to the ground like I was a grown man, he talked about Dad, threatened to kill me⁠⁠—"

"Now, she's just making stuff up," Matthew said. I shot him a glare. He was covered with a sheen of sweat, like he was fighting for his life, fighting for his name, but he knew exactly what he did. "She's slandering me. She's hated me from day one, hated the idea of a male role model, hate the idea of behaving properly and upright⁠⁠⁠⁠—"