Blood Is Thicker...
By
Christine
Part One
Chapter 9
Pik expression didn’t change as he snatched the envelope from her hands and marched out of the closet. He shut the closet door and she heard him turn the lock. She ran for the doorknob but it would not turn.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed at being locked in.
She felt around and found a light switch and flicked it on to reveal rows of fine clothes, coats, shoes and boots. They all seemed to move toward her. She turned and began pounding on the door. “Pik! Pik, please don’t leave me in here. Pleeeease!” She began to perspire. The closet had looked big enough with the door open, but locked in, knowing she couldn’t get out, it began to suffocate her. She sobbed and began gasping for breath. She had been trapped overnight, nearly sixteen hours, in the twisted remains of the car, her adoptive parents’ lifeless corpses inches from her face, unable to move, pressed between the seats, ribs broken, unable to breathe, until someone finally noticed the car in the ditch. She was there again, living it again, losing the fight with the sickening claustrophobia that had plagued her since the night of the accident. “oh god…oh God…OH GOD!” she screamed, but to no benefit.
***
Pik heard nothing from the upstairs. He was in the parlor and had downed his third shot of bourbon before he dared to look through the contents of the envelope. Her story was incredible, but not impossible. There was a certificate of marriage for Emil P. Fouchon and Danielle L. Ridoux. And a birth certificate for Madeleine Elise Fouchon. Adoption papers for the Rourkes, stating her mother was deceased and that she and her mother had been abandoned by her father, Emil Fouchon, giving her orphan status. Then, a certificate of death for Danielle L. Ridoux. Pancreatic cancer. A letter, Madeleine’s name scrawled across the face of a stationery envelope. Pik opened it but only read who had signed it. Mama. He tucked it back into it’s envelope, not wanting to pry any further. Photographs, about half a dozen. A birthday party. A pony ride. And a studio family portrait of a young, handsome Fouchon with a lovely red-haired woman and a precious young girl. The child had her mother’s eyes, but the rest of her features belonged to her father. He knew without any checking that the documents and photos were authentic, being able to spot (or make) a forgery from a mile away. The resemblance between Madeleine and Fouchon was still strongly evident.
It was true, he could barely believe it. He actually laughed out loud. It was no wonder Madeleine had started to laugh! He had been accusing her of trying to seduce her own father. Madeleine…!
The papers fell from his lap as he stood and ran up the stairs, two at a time. He opened the closet door and was struck with horror when he saw her lying on her back, bloody hands covering her face. He knelt beside her despairing, “Maddie, what happened?!” He scooped her up and carried her to the bed, noticing the blood and scratches on the closet door. What in the world could have made her want to get out so badly? He brought back a wetted cloth from the bathroom and began to clean her face and hands. There was no injury on her face, it had come from her bleeding nail beds.
“Open a window…” she croaked out, and he complied.
Beside her again, he stroked her forehead and hair. “I am so sorry, forgive me.” She just smiled, glad to be free.
“You’ve got claustrophobia, haven’t you?” he queried.
“Mmmm Hmmm.”
“I…”
“It’s okay,” she said weakly. ”You didn’t know.”
“But I shouldn’t have locked you in there regardless, even if you weren’t claustrophobic.”
“Well, you’re right,” she smiled a little and tried to sit up. “But it’s okay now. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. Look at your hands.”
She looked at them and grimaced. The ends of her fingers would be very sore for several days, the nails torn off at the quick. She barely remembered clawing the door.
He kissed each of her palms, and her blood was left on his cheek. She had to ask, “Did you look in the envelope?”
“Yes.” He paused. “You were right.”
“About being his daughter?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant. I meant that you can’t be staying in my room when he gets back. I don’t know what he’d do to you, but he’d definitely try to remove a certain few inches of me that I’m not willing to part with.”
Madeleine giggled. “Few inches??”
“Well, I don’t like to brag. Now, let’s get your hands cleaned up.” Her healthy color had almost returned, and he was relieved beyond all measure.
“I want to say this, the right way now,” he said. “I love you.”
She smiled, never knowing a happier moment in her life. “I know.”
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