Chapter 8 - The Parting of the Timber
Alexander did not wait for Rachel to answer.
He did not knock.
With a slow, firm movement of his large, tattooed hand, his calloused fingers closed around the tarnished brass doorknob of Apartment 4B. The cheap lock had not been deadbolted; the latch gave way with a soft, mechanical click that echoed through the quiet room inside.
He pushed the door open.
The apartment was tiny—a single, rectangular room serving as both parlor and bedroom, divided by a faded floral folding screen. The air inside smelled of camphor, boiling mint tea, rubbing alcohol, and the faint, sweet scent of lavender soap. The furniture was old, mismatched, but meticulously clean: a small drop-leaf kitchen table with two wooden chairs, a low bookshelf filled with children's fairy tales, and a twin brass bed positioned beneath a window that looked out over the elevated subway tracks.
Sitting propped up against two thin pillows on the brass bed was Rachel Bennett.
She was pale as fresh parchment, her long brown hair tangled across the collar of a faded gray cardigan, her clavicles sharp beneath her skin, her dark brown eyes wide with sheer, disbelieving horror as the door swung inward.
Standing on the braided rag rug beside the bed, still wearing her bright red dress with the twin bows, was Sophie. In her small hands, she held a plastic measuring cup containing two ounces of pink liquid medicine.
Alexander stepped across the threshold.
His tall, six-foot-two frame completely filled the narrow doorway, blotting out the yellow light of the hallway behind him. His black coat hung open, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his black shirt, the dark ink of the thorned cross visible against his throat.
Sophie turned around at the sound of the door.
She saw the tailored black clothes. She saw the trimmed dark beard. She saw the pale gray eyes looking down at her with an expression so vast, so fierce, and so overflowing with love that it looked like a man being reborn from the ashes.
Sophie’s eyes went wide. She didn't drop the medicine cup, but her small lips parted in a breathless gasp.
"You're the man," Sophie whispered, pointing one small, flour-dusted finger toward his chest. "You're awake."
On the bed, Rachel Bennett’s hands flew to her throat, a choked, broken sob tearing from her lips as she looked at the ghost who had just walked into her living room.
"Alexander..." Rachel wept, her voice failing entirely, her trembling body pressing back against the pillows as if trying to shield her child with her shadow. "How did you... how did you find us?"
Alexander did not look at the furniture. He did not look at the cracked plaster walls.
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He looked at the little girl in the red dress.
He slowly closed the door behind him, the latch clicking shut with an authoritative, final thump that sealed the three of them inside the room together.
