Because he wasn't.
He said it like my father's death was an inconvenience on his Thanksgiving schedule.
I grabbed my car keys and walked toward the driveway.
Ethan followed.
“You're not leaving.”
“Yes, I am.”
He stepped in front of me.
“Claire.”
“Move.”
He didn't.
Then he took my keys.
I reached for them, but he grabbed my wrist.
“You're staying here.”
I pulled away.
“Are you insane?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he dragged me toward the basement.
I started screaming.
Patricia stood at the top of the stairs.
She didn't help me.
She simply said:
