Running for my life - The maner

The Inspection

Chapter sixteen

Christopher crossed the threshold with Catalonia and Scarlet beside him, and the house seemed to tighten around the three of them. The entryway still held the faint scent of lemon cleaner and warm bread, the kind of comfort Catalonia had built on purpose, but it thinned the moment he stepped in, as if warmth itself knew to make room. Cold air followed close behind, carrying leather and winter, sliding in at their backs like a warning that didn’t need words.

Catalonia kept her palms pressed to her thighs, fingers rigid, trying to anchor herself in her own home. Scarlet stayed close at her shoulder, subtle, almost casual, near enough that Catalonia could feel her presence without anyone else having to acknowledge the need for it. Christopher didn’t look at either of them the way a father might. His posture was straight, his expression already set in appraisal, and the silence he brought with him felt practiced.

He moved forward without pausing, as if the house owed him passage. His eyes began their methodical sweep immediately, entryway, corners, baseboards, pausing on details the way a blade pauses before it cuts. He reached out, almost absentmindedly, and let two fingers trail along the doorframe. When he looked at the dust, or the lack of it, his mouth didn’t move. Approval, if it existed, stayed locked behind his teeth.

He tilted his head at a picture frame on the wall. It was off by a fraction, barely noticeable unless you were searching for imperfection like it was your job. His gaze narrowed. He didn’t fix it. He simply noted it, filed it away, and moved on. At each threshold he paused, one foot planted, the other hovering for a beat, as if he were calculating the worth of the room before granting it his presence. Catalonia stood a step behind him, shoulders tight, watching him measure her life in silence. The quiet stretched. It pressed against her ribs. She waited for the first word like a verdict.

Christopher finally turned, and the movement alone made Catalonia’s spine straighten. His eyes landed on her face with the same clinical precision he’d used on the doorframe. For a moment he said nothing, letting expectation do the work. Then, in a voice that carried the weight of command without needing volume, he spoke. “First things first,” he said, “I would like to spend some time with my grandsons. I haven’t seen them in a while, and I want to see how they are progressing.” Relief flickered through Catalonia so fast it almost felt like hope, he wasn’t starting with the house, wasn’t starting with her, but dread followed immediately, cold and familiar. Progressing. As if the boys were projects. As if childhood could be graded and corrected. She forced her mouth into a smile and felt how brittle it was, how it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course,” she managed. Scarlet shifted a half-step closer, quiet support without spectacle. Christopher’s stare remained fixed, expectant, as if he’d already moved on and was waiting for the world to catch up.

Catalonia nodded once, a small, obedient motion, and turned toward the hallway before her courage could thin any further. The hallway felt longer than it ever had. She walked as if the floor might tilt, her steps careful, controlled, each one placed to keep her from breaking stride. She kept her hand close to the wall, then finally let her fingertips brush it cool paint, a steady surface. The contact helped. A little. Scarlet matched her pace without crowding her, the soft sound of her shoes a quiet counterpoint to Catalonia’s uneven breathing. When they passed the framed family photos, smiling faces, birthdays, a beach trip, Catalonia couldn’t look at them. They felt like evidence. Like something Christopher might cross-examine. From the playroom came the bright clatter of plastic pieces and the boys’ laughter, unguarded and full-bodied. It hit Catalonia like a bruise. She slowed at the doorway, her hand hovering over the frame, imagining, just for a second, turning back, telling Christopher no, telling him to leave. The thought was a spark. It died quickly. Scarlet leaned in just enough for her voice to be private. “You’re doing fine,” she murmured. “Get them in, keep it short. I’m right here.” Catalonia swallowed, stepped into the room, and forced brightness into her tone. “Scott? Tiller? Come here, please.”

While Catalonia gathered the boys, Christopher moved through the house as if it were a report he intended to sign. He drifted into the kitchen first, drawn by the clean lines and the faint scent of soap. He ran a finger along the counter, slow and deliberate, then inspected the pad of his fingertip as though he expected to find failure there. His gaze travelled to the sink, the stove, the neatly stacked dishes. Order. Function. Acceptable. In the dining area he paused at the table and counted the chairs, one, two, three, four, his eyes narrowing slightly as if the number could reveal a secret. He looked at the wood grain, the small scuffs near the legs, the practical placemats. Not extravagant. Not careless either. He moved on without comment, but the silence itself felt like a critique withheld for later use. He passed the hallway again, stopping at the thermostat, the coat hooks, the small basket of shoes by the door. Each detail received the same cold attention. When he reached the lounge, he stepped into the centre of it and stopped, perfectly placed, as if the room had been designed to hold him there. He turned slowly, surveying the couch, the shelves, the muted décor, a king in a modest kingdom, deciding whether the subjects had managed not to embarrass him. “This house looks adequate,” he said at last, the word landing like a stamp. “Not as luxurious as the one I lived in, but this one looks like it will do for you.” His eyes flicked to a throw blanket folded too neatly, then to a lamp that wasn’t quite cantered on its side table. “You’ve chosen… practical pieces.” The pause before practical made it sound like a compromise, not a compliment.

His attention shifted, sharp as a pivoting blade, to Scarlet. “And you,” he said, as if she were an item on the same list. “Where do you live?” The question was dressed in politeness, but it carried the unmistakable shape of interrogation. Not curiosity, assessment. Scarlet’s posture didn’t change, but Catalonia could see the calculation in the way her friend held her shoulders back, chin level, eyes steady. Scarlet took a measured breath and chose her words with care. “Closer to the facility,” she said. “It’s more practical. I’m on call often, and I need to be able to get there quickly.” She didn’t mention comfort. She didn’t mention preference. She kept it in Christopher’s language, efficiency, responsibility, duty. Christopher studied her for a beat, weighing the truth against the steadiness of her gaze. Then he nodded once. “Good.” Work first, always. Scarlet’s expression stayed neutral, but Catalonia felt the shift, felt how Christopher’s values could be used like Armor if you knew how to wear them.

The boys arrived like a gust of wind. Tiller burst into the lounge first, fast and bright, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the floor as he skidded to a stop. Scott followed a step behind, not slow exactly, but steadier, his eyes already scanning the room, taking in the unfamiliar shape of the moment. Their voices overlapped in excited chaos. “Mommy, Mommy!” Tiller called, breathless. “We were told you were looking for us!” Catalonia’s heart clenched at the word mommy, at the way it belonged to a world where she was safe and in charge. She stepped forward quickly, placing herself between them and Christopher by instinct. Then she remembered who was watching and forced her shoulders back, her smile returning in a careful, practiced version. Her voice changed too, more formal, more controlled, a tone she never used with them unless she was speaking to a teacher or a stranger. “Boys,” she said, “I don’t know if you remember your grandfather, Christopher.” She gestured, and the movement felt like presenting them for inspection. “This is Scott. He’s ten. And this is Tiller. He’s eleven.” Tiller’s grin faltered as his eyes landed on Christopher. Scott’s gaze sharpened, his body angling subtly toward his mother. The room’s atmosphere shifted, the air thickening as childhood exuberance met adult tension. The boys didn’t step back, but they didn’t step forward either. They hovered, uncertain, as if their instincts had picked up a signal their minds couldn’t name. Christopher looked down at them. Not warmly. Not unkindly, either, something colder than both. His eyes measured their height, their posture, the set of their shoulders. He took in Tiller’s restless energy, Scott’s cautious stillness. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a hand. He simply assessed. Scott edged closer to Catalonia until his sleeve brushed her hip. Tiller did the same, his hand hovering near hers without quite taking it. Catalonia kept her face composed, but her body leaned toward them, protective in a way she couldn’t turn off even when she tried.