Chapter 5
Melody, already asleep, awoke to a yell and the slamming of the door. Frowning, she switched on the light and limped to the door.
“Mel…” Christopher stood outside, his hand hovering above the door, poised to slam it shut again.
“Why are you back? Why are you slamming the door like a lunatic at midnight?” Melody demanded impatiently.
His anger flared at her tone. He grabbed her arm. “Why am I back? Isn’t it my own home?”
The impatient expression vanished from Melody’s face. She looked down, her brow furrowed in pain. Christopher, assuming her obedience was restored, felt her tugging at his wrist. He noticed blood on his palm.
He’d squeezed too hard, reopening her wound. Tears streamed down her face as she glared at him, lost in the night’s fury.
“Did you get hurt?” he asked, wanting to examine her arm, but she coldly avoided him.
“Are you asking me? Weren’t you the cause?”
Stunned, Christopher recalled leaving her by the roadside. He looked; a large scrape marred her elbow, bleeding anew. He saw bandaged toes, blood seeping through.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Melody turned, attempting to close the door.
“Let go,” she said, frustrated, unable to shut it.
Instead of an apology, he asked, “Why didn’t you answer my calls? Do you know I…”
Melody’s lips tightened. His midnight rampage was because she hadn’t answered? A flimsy excuse.
She limped to the bedside table. Christopher watched, frustrated.
“The phone fell and shattered. It was unusable. Are you satisfied?” She held up the broken phone.
Christopher stared at the cracked screen, speechless.
“Melody…” He began, but the door slammed shut, leaving him outside. He stood there a moment before turning and leaving.
Back in the room, Melody was furious. Remembering his calls, she checked her phone: nearly forty missed calls. Something was clearly wrong. Why would he call incessantly after leaving her with Cynthia?
She switched off her phone, unwilling to dwell on it, and went back to sleep.
In the master bedroom, Christopher showered and went to bed. His phone buzzed; a message from Cynthia. Was Melody alright? Had she gotten home safely? And, she added, don’t be too hard on her.
His sympathy for Melody wavered. This wouldn’t have happened, he thought, if she hadn’t deliberately scalded Cynthia.
“Don’t bother about her. Sleep early. Goodnight.” He sent the message.
In the hotel, Cynthia smiled, pleased by Christopher’s annoyance with Melody.
It was after midnight. Christopher had work in the morning. He switched off the lights but was soon forced to get up, his stomach churning. He’d suffered from gastritis since high school. Cynthia had always taken care of him, ensuring he ate regularly. College had improved his condition, but business dinners had brought it back. Melody used to make him hangover remedies and broth every night, helping him sleep.
He went to the kitchen, expecting Melody to have left him a portion, but the stove and refrigerator were spotless. He felt a pang of regret over the wasted hangover remedy, and anger at Melody for not preparing more. He almost called her, but stopped.
After a moment, he searched for the first-aid kit, finding it gone. He remembered Melody’s bedside table. Perhaps a sliver of conscience remained. Instead of knocking, he searched for a spare key.
He opened the door quietly, his breath catching at the sound. He chuckled; he owned the house, yet acted like a thief.
The room was dim, faintly scented with medicine. Melody lay sideways, partially covered by the blanket. He was about to leave after retrieving the medicine, when he saw her. Light from the doorway revealed bruises on her back, stark even in the dimness.
He paused, his gaze fixed on her. Then, he stood, left, and softly closed the door. They were minor injuries; she wouldn’t die. If she hadn’t been jealous of Cynthia and scalded her own feet, none of this would have happened.