I’m half-tempted to leave Enzo to his drama queen moment and go scrub some of these floors, but then he’s standing in front of me.
“I'm going to check out his room. See if I can find anything.”
My mouth pops open. “Why must you harass the old man? He's just out here living his life, and you're questioning the direction he pees in.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Maybe his penis curves to the side.” I throw my hands out in exasperation. When his face twists with anger, I cut in before he can bark something rude. “Look, the point is, you don't know his life, and he hasn't given you a real reason for you to question every single thing about him.”
He crosses his arms. “You believe the ghost story?”
“What else am I supposed to believe, Enzo? I'm trying really hard not to gaslight you right now, but other than giving us a bedtime, he hasn't done anything. Sometimes people are just weird and have odd quirks.”
He shrugs a shoulder, a glimmer in his eye. “And I'm going to go find out just how weird.”
He breezes past me, and I tip my head back in frustration, sighing loudly.
I don’t entirely disagree that there's something off about Sylvester, but I also stand by the fact that he's probably just a harmless kook. He's lived here by himself for decades, completely removed from society. It's only obvious he will lack social skills and have pet peeves when two random strangers come in and disrupt his life.
And after his story with the prisoners and how they attempted to break in and possibly kill him, it's no wonder he has trust issues.
We don't know him, and he doesn’t know us, either. Locking us in our room at night probably makes him feel safe, and I can't fault him for that.
By the time I make it to the doorway, Enzo is already climbing the steps toward Sylvester's room.
“Oh my God, you're unhinged. No more fish for you. Clearly, it messed with your critical thinking skills.”
His chin tips over his shoulder. “As pretty as that mouth is, I'm going to need you to fucking shut it.”
I open said mouth, ready to tell him how pretty a black eye would look on him, but before I can, he growls, halting the words in my throat. “Don't make me do it for you.”
I feel my face flush hot, his accent making those words sound more delectable than they should, causing my stomach to tighten as his cruel words elicit the exact opposite reaction of what they're meant to.
Without waiting for my response, he turns the knob and slowly opens Sylvester’s door, the hinges creaking loudly.
My eyes bug from my head, and I'm whipping around, expecting to see—or hear—Sylvester making his way up the steps to catch us red-handed.
But after a full minute of listening, I hear nothing. Turning back toward Enzo, I roll my eyes when I find that he didn't even bother to stick around and make sure he wasn't in danger of being caught.
Self-assured dickhead.
I waffle between not wanting to get involved and putting my nose where it doesn't belong in case Sylvester does have something to hide.
Biting my lip, I shut our door behind me and slink toward the three steps leading up to the room.
Try as I might to deny it, I have an attraction to doing the wrong thing.
I creep up the stairs and into the room, finding Enzo pulling open the top drawer in a lopsided dresser. Pictures of sailboats and lighthouses adorning the stone walls, dust covering the frames.
His bed is neatly made, and something about that eases my mind. As if it confirms my theory that Sylvester is just a meticulous person, and that perfectly explains why he locks our door at night and forces us to pee in a bucket—not that either of us has done so yet.
Adrenaline pumping through my system, I softly close the door behind me.
Next to a tall dresser is a big closet with sliding shuttered doors that draws my attention. With Enzo right beside it, I decide to head for the nightstand next to the bed instead. Anything to avoid being close to that barbarian.
He ignores me anyway, but I'm sure he'll find a time to insult me for going along with his plan later.
I slide open the top drawer and am immediately disturbed when there's a full set of dentures right there, the teeth dirty. This is going swell already.
There's loose change, a tarnished gold watch, a box of bullets, and a few Polaroid photographs.
Sparing a glance at Enzo, I pick them up and flip through them.
The first is a photograph of a younger version of Sylvester smiling down at a blonde baby girl in his arms. He looks to be in his thirties or forties. Beside him is a blonde woman, staring at the duo with a grin. Though, when I get a better look, I see that the man is gripping the woman's wrist with his other hand, his fingers visibly digging into her skin tightly. Studying her face closer, I notice now that her smile is strained, and her shoulders are curled in.