Freedom tastes like morning dew and smells like someone else's freshly cut grass. I never thought I'd get excited about something as simple as tying my shoes, but here I am, fumbling with the laces of these ridiculously expensive sneakers Emily bought me, feeling like I'm about to embark on some grand adventure.
My fingers work clumsily at the bright blue laces, producing a sad, lopsided knot that would make Emily wince. She tied them with such precision, tight enough to support my ankles but never too tight to cut off circulation. Mine just look... pathetic. I tug at the loops, trying to even them out, but somehow make it worse.
"Whatever," I mutter to the empty house. "They'll stay on."
It's embarrassing to admit how much this little outing means to me. I'm a grown man getting giddy about a solo walk around the neighborhood like a teenager who just got their driver's license. But after two weeks of constant supervision, Emily hovering over me at home, Mark babysitting me when she's at work, today is different.
I stand up, testing the weight on my new shoes. They feel good, springy in a way that makes me want to run. The house stretches around me, suddenly vast and empty without Emily's commanding presence filling every corner. The silence is both eerie and exhilarating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't need to check to know it's Emily.
“You sure you're okay alone?”
I type back quickly: “Still breathing. About to go for my walk.”
Three dots appear immediately, followed by, “Stay in the neighborhood. I have your location on. Text when you get back. I love you.”
It's sweet how she worries, even if it borders on suffocating sometimes. I send back a heart emoji because I know it'll make her smile, then stuff the phone into my pocket.
I step outside, the front door clicking shut behind me. The morning air hits my face like a welcome slap, fresh and crisp with just enough warmth from the sun to make my skin tingle. I tilt my face upward, soaking in the sunshine like it might disappear if I don't absorb enough of it now.
The neighborhood looks different when I'm alone.
I've barely made it past two houses when I spot a woman standing in front of an open hood, her shoulders slumped in obvious frustration. She's leaning over the engine compartment of a sleek black sedan, one hand on her hip while the other pushes a strand of vibrant red hair behind her ear.
Something about her silhouette makes my heart rate kick up. I can't place it, but there's a familiarity there that hits me harder than anything has since I woke up in that hospital bed. Stronger than the vague recognition I felt with Mark, more visceral, like muscle memory.
She must sense me staring because she looks up suddenly, brown eyes locking with mine.
"Hey!" she calls out, waving me over with a smile that's both perfect and unsettling.
"Uhhhh," I manage brilliantly, my feet moving toward her of their own accord.
"Do you know anything about cars?" she asks when I get closer. Her voice sends a jolt through me, familiar in a way I can't explain. "This thing just died on me, and I'm completely useless with engines."
Up close, she's striking, tall, with sharp features softened by her smile. The red hair cascades around her shoulders in loose waves that catch the sunlight. Something doesn't feel right, though. Like I'm looking at a perfect painting where one tiny detail is off.
"I wish I could help," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "But I don't remember if I know anything about cars."
Her eyebrow arches slightly. "You don't remember?"
"Yeah," I say, not elaborating further.
She extends her hand toward me, perfectly manicured nails catching the sunlight. "I'm Charlotte."
I stare at her outstretched hand. Something inside of me is telling me not to touch her. Probably the thought of Emily getting mad at me again.
Her brown eyes study me with an intensity that feels almost predatory.
"I don't bite, you know," she says with a wide smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
I laugh awkwardly and finally take her hand. Her grip is firm, confident, and her skin is surprisingly soft against mine.
"Charles," I offer, withdrawing my hand perhaps a bit too quickly. "I really should be going. My wife has my location, and I don't want her to think I got kidnapped or something."
Charlotte's face suddenly transforms, the friendly smile vanishing as her eyes drop to my throat. Her hand lifts toward me, fingers outstretched, before she catches herself mid-motion and pulls back.
"Did your wife do that to your neck?" she asks, her voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.
My hand flies up instinctively, covering the yellowing bruises that circle my throat like a morbid necklace. I'd completely forgotten they were visible.
"No, it's not…" I stammer, heat crawling up my face. "It's just... we were... it was consensual."
Charlotte's face softens into another smile. There's something practiced about it, like she's trying on an expression she's rehearsed in a mirror.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, her voice dipping into a playful register. "That's very... kinky of you."
I shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel standing here on the sidewalk.
"Well," she says, brushing her hands against her sleek black dress, "I guess I'd better get back to my car situation."
"Yeah," I manage, taking a small step backward. "Good luck with that."
"See you around, neighbor," she calls after me, her voice lingering in the air between us.
"Bye," I respond, already turning away.
I start walking, my pace quickening with each step. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can feel her eyes following me as I retreat. The peaceful morning feels tainted somehow, my first taste of freedom soured by this strange encounter.
*****
[Maddison’s POV]
I slam the hood of my car shut and slide into the driver's seat, my heart pounding with adrenaline. Through the windshield, I watch Charles disappear around the corner, his figure growing smaller until he vanishes completely. Only then do I allow myself to breathe.
My fingers tremble slightly as I reach up and pull off the red wig, relief washing over me as my natural brown hair falls free. The scalp itch was becoming unbearable. Next, I carefully remove the brown contact lenses, blinking several times as my gray eyes adjust to the world again.
"He didn't recognize me," I whisper to myself, a smile spreading across my face.
I toss the wig onto the passenger seat and examine my reflection in the rearview mirror, wiping away a smudge of makeup with my thumb. The disguise was flawless, just enough to alter my appearance without looking theatrical. Charlotte, indeed.
"He felt something, though," I murmur, recalling the way his body tensed when our hands touched, how his eyes widened slightly when he heard my voice. "Some part of him remembers me."
I start the car, which was never actually broken, and drum my fingers against the steering wheel. Those bruises on his neck... My blood still boils at the sight of them. That blonde bitch has been marking him, hurting him. My dear brother Charles.
"So she likes it rough," I whisper, my voice filling the car's interior. "Interesting."
I pull away from the curb smoothly, driving slowly through the neighborhood. The houses here are all so similar, pristine facades hiding whatever darkness lurks within. Just like my darling brother's marriage.
Those bruises weren't consensual. I know Charles too well, have studied him too closely for too many years to believe that lie. The way he covered them reflexively, the shame in his eyes, my brother is being abused by that woman, and he doesn't even know who he really is.
I turn down a side street, making sure to drive in the opposite direction from where Charles walked. Wouldn't want to spook him on our first encounter. This needs to be handled delicately, like cultivating a rare orchid. Too much attention too quickly, and the bloom will wither.
"How does one bag a married man?" I muse aloud to the empty car. The question hangs in the air, delicious and forbidden.
I smile at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My gray eyes, so like Charles's, gleam with possibility.
It's really quite simple. I bet if he learns how Emily broke his heart the first time, he’ll be quite unhappy.
“I'll be seeing you again very soon, little brother.”