Die for You

Chapter 17

The summerhouse was old but well looked after and in very good condition. After my eyes got accustomed to the dim light at this end of the garden, I could make out the windows and their blinds. As I peered in through the doors, I could see that there was a dim light inside, like a torch or a candle, and gently, I tried the doors. They were clearly locked from the inside.

I knocked on the door, softly at first and then, as the silence continued, rather more firmly.

"Go away." A slurred voice from inside the building called out. "I don't want to see anyone."

"Miss Armstrong, is that you?"

"Go away! I'm not in the mood to 'chat' tonight."

"Miss Armstrong, it's me Freen Sarocha. If you don't open up, I'm going to kick the doors in."

I paused for a second before rattling the handles and trying to force the doors.

"Fuck off, Freen, I want to be left alone."

"Miss Armstrong, please open the door," I rattled the doors again, seriously getting worried about her.

She's had a rough time the last few days and after this morning's personal high, to be rejected by her dad like that must have been a kicker. I was cursing myself for my inattention when I heard a faint click on the other side of the door.

"Miss Armstrong?"

I tried the door again and this time, it swung open without any resistance. I stepped into the dusty-smelling building and closed the door behind me, flicking over the latch. If she wanted a bit of privacy, I'll happily supply it, once I know she's okay.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark and looking around, I finally found her. She was sat, slumped in an old leather chair in the far corner of the building, a bottle of brandy in her hand and a small candle stub burning dimly on the small table to her side.

"You don't take no for an answer do you, Miss Sarocha?"

"Not when it comes to your safety, Miss Armstrong, no. You disappeared from the party and that makes me nervous. I've been looking for you for the last twenty minutes. Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just fucking dandy. Daddy tells the world what an excellent son Richie is, and gives him all the credit for a multi-million pound deal I've been working on for six fucking months."

She took a long swig from the brandy bottle she was cradling and winced as the hard liquor hit her throat.

"Then, the only thing he's got to say to me is that I look like a whore because I dyed my fucking hair."

I didn't have anything to say to that. I wanted to tell her he was wrong, that her father was a prick for even thinking it, let alone saying it. I couldn't do it though, couldn't make the words come out. Instead, I just stared at her and waited for her to continue.

"This is supposed to be my fucking party. It's supposed to be celebrating my big deal and instead, fucking Richie's getting all the fucking praise again, and I'm sitting here alone in the dark, crying like a loser."

"You're not a loser, Miss Armstrong."

"What the fuck would you know, Freen? You hardly know me at all."

"I know you well enough to know you're not a loser, Miss Armstrong. Losers don't win deals like you did yesterday. Losers don't behave like you do."

I walked across to the other chair in the room, a small three-legged stool and dusted it off; pulling it closer to her.

"My dad's a shit," she announced, taking another drink and looking at the floor. Through the candlelight, I can see her tears falling into the dust at her feet.