Page 38 of Bleed

My attention immediately drifts toward the floating staircase that leads up to Dr. Faulkner’s domain.

‘Don’t go upstairs without an invite.’

He might as well have told me there’s a giant red button up there labeled Do Not Press.

My mind and gaze keep wandering upstairs while I finish off my burger and fries. If Dr. Faulkner is so concerned about privacy that every donor gets a warning speech, then he’s obviously hiding something. The question is what.

I last all of five minutes– just long enough to convince myself this is a good idea– then I’m creeping up the steps, my bare feet silent on the polished wood.

The second floor is noticeably darker than the main living space below, the hallway lit only by a handful of recessed lights. Closed doors line both sides of the corridor, not giving any clues to what lies beyond. The walls have no photographs, no artwork, no signs of life… the entire space feels strangely sterile, like a wing of a private clinic rather than someone’s home.

I pause at the top, holding my breath to listen.

There’s no footsteps, no voices. No indication I’ve been caught.

I tiptoe forward, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the nearest door, but it doesn’t move when I press down.

Locked.

I frown, moving onto the next one.

Also locked.

Continuing down the hallway, I test the handle of every door, but they’re all secured tight. Almost like Dr. Faulkner knew I’d ignore instructions and come snooping around the second I was left unsupervised.

Irritation prickles along my skin as I finally give up and pad back downstairs, even more suspicious now than I was before.

The doctor’s clearly hiding something, and I fully intend to find out what it is. As soon as he wakes up tonight, I’m demanding a tour of the upstairs– because if I’m going to live here, I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.

And if he thinks a few locked doors are enough to stop me from asking questions, he’s got another thing coming.

Chapter

Ten

Turns out, those BounceBack pills work exactly as advertised. Within an hour of taking them, all symptoms of my hangover were gone, and I’m not sure whether to be thankful for the relief or pissed off about discovering how much easier life is for rich people. Because apparently it wasn’t enough that they could buy their way out of everything else– even hangovers are solved by throwing money at them. As if the wealth gap in this city wasn’t unfair already.

Without the headache, it’s easy to lose myself in my art. I spend hours sitting on the floor with my sketchbook balanced across my knees, the whole world narrowing to the faint smudge of pencil dust collecting along the side of my hand and the koi fish taking shape across the page. Scale after scale, line after line, the design evolves beneath my pencil with each draft until it’s damn near perfect.

I’m so absorbed in drawing that I completely forget where I am– which is probably why I don’t hear him come downstairs.

“Good evening, Bex,” a deep voice murmurs, far too close for comfort.

A startled yelp tears out of me and my hand slips, the tip of my pencil cutting a dark graphite streak straight across the page as my head whips sideways.

Dr. Faulkner is standing just a few feet away, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats and looking entirely too calm for someone who just shaved ten years off my lifespan.

“What’d I say about sneaking up on me?” I huff, glaring up at him.

His brow creases. “I announced myself, as you requested.”

“Sure, after appearing out of nowhere,” I scoff. “You’ve gotta stop doing that, it’s creepy as fuck.”

He regards me for a moment, then dips his chin in a nod. “Noted.”

Instead of explaining himself– or, god forbid, apologizing– he just turns and heads for the kitchen. I glare daggers at his retreating back, then reach for my eraser and try to salvage the drawing. Unfortunately, erasing the streak also means erasing some of the shading that took over an hour to perfect, which only annoys me further.

The fridge door opens with a soft whoosh, followed by the sound of plastic pouches hitting the granite countertop. I peek over the top of my sketchbook, watching as Dr. Faulkner meticulously lines up two blood bags on the counter– one with a blue cap, one with red– then retrieves a tall glass from the cabinet. He cracks both caps and pours, then gives it a lazy swirl, dark red liquid splashing against the inside of the glass.