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twenty-four

੭୧ 𝐩𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 ੭୧

"She's gone, Pip." Scott's voice echoed through the dark room as I sat cross-legged on the floor, the cool concrete biting through my black stockings and velvet dress.

I didn't understand it—how was she gone?

"She's coming back," my small voice was unrelenting, shaking yet strong. She was coming back, no one could tell me otherwise. "She is." Tears pricked my eyes as Scott shook his head, grief filling his features as he straightened the sleeves on his suit. "Scotty, she is."

A glass shattered nearby, and I could almost make out the tall figure on the other side of the room, his tall frame hunched over and bony as he stalked towards Scott and I.

His face, though blurry, was scrunched into an expression of pure anger, his eyes wild as he inhaled sharply, dropping the burning cigarette into the floor and crushing it with his boot. "Piper," his voice was hard despite the slurring of his words, the swaying of his body. "She ain't comin' back. Get that through your thick skull."

My eyes slid across the room to where Matt began to cry, and Scott quickly made his way to the crib, lifting our baby brother into his arms as he bounced the wailing bundle in his arms, soothing him.

"Why not?" My chapped lips began to tremble—it was cold in Montreal, the December air seeping in through the frail windows and into my skin, sinking in so deep it hurt. "Where did she go?"

She was coming back.

The man cursed, throwing his bottle to the floor. "Jesus Christ, kid. Shut up, will ya?"

My mother was coming back.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

A sharp gasp flew past my lips as I woke, sitting up quickly. Sweat trickled down my temples, soaking the tangled locks that fell down my back as my chest heaved, my eyes flying around my bedroom. "Not in Montreal," I breathed, clutching the damp sheets. "Not in Montreal."

The soft glow of morning light filtered in through my sheer, white curtains, casting the room in a warm, golden glow, illuminating the light sheen of sweat that coated my skin.

Closing my eyes, I allowed the warmth of the sunlight to cleanse me, washing away the cold that had seeped into my bones, replacing it with a calm, gentle heat.

My heart rate began to slow, my breaths coming in an even rhythm as I reacquainted myself with my surroundings—with New York. I was safe, I was comfortable, I was—

The small, green alarm clock on my bedside table caught my eye, and all sense of calm washed away, replaced with utter dread.

10:45 a.m.

"Crap!" I shot out of my bed, searching my drawers for a gallery–appropriate outfit, deciding on a white blouse and tight, black pencil skirt before hastily shimming into it, forcing my fingers through my tangled waves in an attempt to ease the frizz.

My meeting with Mr. Beaurigard was in fifteen minutes, and though I didn't know much about him, something told me he didn't take well to latecomers—or dairy, probably.

I mentally cursed myself out as I knocked on Grey's side of the bathroom door, tapping my foot impatiently as I waited for him to answer.

He never did.

Swinging the door open, I found the room entirely abandoned, and couldn't help but laugh at the irony of Greyson deciding to finally leave the house before noon today, of all days.