Desiree quickly pulled the door shut again. She hadn’t even made it all the way into the apartment, but she saw what was happening and had just enough time to shield herself with the door. Confused and more than a little startled, she stood in the hallway for a moment. She heard another crash, but after that, there were no more sounds.
She slowly reopened the door, tentatively calling, “Arnold?” When it was wide enough to see inside, she found him behind the couch, his hands white-knuckled as they dug into the fabric, his shagging red curls masking most of his face. What she could see looked hollow. “Hey…” her voice was low, nervous, as she took labored steps toward him. All around, things were broken: the glasses in the kitchenette, the floor lamp by the door, the bookshelves on the wall. The floor was peppered with glass, as if it had snowed. There was a broken photo frame that she had to step over. It had a picture of a man she knew.
Her hand reached for him, but he turned away decisively before she could really reach, her fingertips brushing against his shoulder. “Should’ve locked the door,” he grumbled, his voice low. “I hate being seen like this.”
Desiree inhaled sharply. “You did all this? Why?”
“Collin’s not here,” Arnold said instead, forcing volume into his voice while clearly struggling to keep it from sounding snappish. “And as you can probably tell, I’m not really in the mood for conversation.”
“What happened?”
Arnold looked at her like he had never looked at her, his blue eyes narrow, trying to hide the damage. For a moment, they just stared at each other, and Desiree felt almost afraid. Then he looked down at the photo frame. “He did.”
Desiree swallowed and asked the question she already knew the answer to. “Is that your dad?”
“My dad?” Arnold spat with an uncomfortable laugh. “He’s not a dad. He’s my father, yes, but he’s not a dad. Dads don’t do what he did.” He strolled closer to the broken photo as he spoke, closer and closer until he was over it. Then he drove his heel into the shattered glass, accentuating his speech. “They don’t hurt people. They don’t hit women. They don’t use you like a bargaining chip.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Is that… is that what he was like to you?” It was barely more than a whisper, her gaze placed firmly on the mangled photo of his father.
Their father.
“He’s a terrible man,” said Arnold firmly, forcing himself to breathe more deeply as he stood on the broken glass. “He did a lot of bad things to my mother. Things I can’t talk about. And he made me like this.” The Aladren alum ground his heel into the picture; it tore. “Like him.”
She was mortified. Desiree had been warned about Arnold Manger, cautioned that he was unpredictable and dangerous, but she was told it was Jamie Crosby’s genetics that made him like this, made them all like this. Now he claimed otherwise. Desiree took a few steps back, half-stumbling until she found the wall with her back. Ross Manger was a difficult man, but was he this? Had he always been this?
Her entire world was shaken, the foundation cracked, like it was broken at the core. Arnold raised his gaze from the floor and saw the pained expression on her face. He softened, immediately realizing she was afraid. And she was, but maybe not of just him. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his tone more even.