Melinda stroked Darlie’s hair. She’d wrapped the girl in both blankets, but Darlie continued to shiver from the aftermath of the nightmare.
Melinda’s own throat raged with thirst. She’d risked drinking from the bottle of water the woman had tossed into the room, but after a few swallows she’d felt woozy.
Staying alert, staying aware was vital.
Darlie needed her.
He’d had the woman bring Darlie in the night—she thought it had been night—before. He preferred having the women he used deal with the chores. He’d think of the water, the blankets, snapping those restraints on trembling wrists and ankles as chores.
She’d done what she could for the girl—held her, rocked her, cocooned her in blankets while Darlie cried for her mother.
“Will he come back? Will he?”
Melinda couldn’t count the times Darlie had asked, so she answered the same way.
“I’m going to do everything I can to keep him from hurting you again. My sister’s looking for us. Remember, I told you about my sister, Bree?” She kept her voice soothing, like the stroke of her hand. “She’s a police detective. And there’s another. The other I told you about, remember? The one who saved me? Eve Dallas. They’ll find us, Darlie. We just have to hold on until they do.”
“He said I was a bad girl. He said I liked what he did, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“He lies, sweetie. He lies because he wants you to feel ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault.”
“I tried to stop him.” Darlie burrowed into her. “I tried to fight, but he hurt me so bad. I screamed and screamed, but nobody heard me.”
“I know.” Melinda had to close her eyes, close them tight to block off the memory of her own wild struggles, her own screams. “I’m here. Help’s coming.”
“He put the number on me, and now my mom’s going to be mad. She said—she and Dad said I couldn’t get a tattoo until I was eighteen. She’s going to be so mad.”
“No, she won’t.” Melinda held Darlie tighter when she started to weep again. “I promise she won’t be mad at you because it’s not your fault.”
“I said mean things about her. I was mad and said mean things. It’s bad. I’m bad.”
“No.” Firmer now to cut through the rise of grief and guilt. “No, it’s normal. It’s what every girl does sometimes. You’re not bad. You listen to me now. Don’t let him get in your head. Whatever happens, remember who you are, that it’s not your fault.”
“I’m not allowed to have sex.” Darlie wept.
“You didn’t. He raped you. That’s not sex. That’s attack, assault, abuse. It’s not sex.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.” But she did. Of course she did. “Remember they’re looking for us. Everyone’s looking for us. Darlie, I’m going to do everything I can, but if I can’t stop him—”
“Please.” The shackles rattled as Darlie shot up in panic. “Oh please, don’t let him hurt me again.”
“I’ll do everything I can, but . . .” Melinda turned, cupped Darlie’s pale, wet face in her hands. “If . . . you have to, remember it’s not your fault. If you can, go somewhere else inside your head. Don’t let him get inside your head.”
“I want to go home.”
“Then go there in your head. Go—” She heard the locks give, felt Darlie cringe and shudder.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Shh, shh. Don’t cry,” she whispered. “He likes it better when you cry.”
The monster opened the door.
“There’s my bad girls.”
His smile beamed indulgence, affection, but Melinda saw the hot glint in his eyes.
“Time for your next lesson, Darlie.”
“She needs a little more time. Please? She’ll do better if she has a little more time to absorb the first lesson.”
“Oh, I think she absorbed just fine. Didn’t you, Darlie?”
“Take me. I need to learn a lesson.”
He spared Melinda a glance. “It’s too late for you. Past your prime. Now this one—”
“I’ll be anything you want,” Melinda said as he stepped forward. “Anything. Let you do whatever you want. You can hurt me. I’ve been bad. I deserve it.”
“You’re not what I want.” He struck out, a brutally casual backhand that rapped her head against the wall. “Keep it up,” he warned Melinda, “and she’ll pay.”
“How about conversation? The woman you’re with? She doesn’t seem like she has a lot to say. It’s obvious she doesn’t have your intellect. We’re not going anywhere,” Melinda added, gripping Darlie’s hand hard under the blankets. “Wouldn’t you like to talk for a while? The day I came to see you, you wanted to talk and I didn’t let you. I’m sorry. I’d like to make up for that now.”
He angled his head. “Isn’t that interesting.”
“I can’t give you what she does, but I can offer something else. Something you must have missed, something you can’t get from her—or the woman.”
“And just what would we talk about.”
“Anything you like.” Her heart beat like a drum in her throat, and the beat was hope. “A man like you enjoys the stimulation of conversation, debate, discussion. I know you’ve traveled a great deal. You could tell me about the places you’ve been. Or we could talk about art, music, literature.”
“Interesting,” he said again, and she could see she’d intrigued him, amused him.
“You have a captive audience.”
He gave a bark of a laugh. “Aren’t you the sassy one?”
When he walked out, Melinda let out a breath. “Hold on,” she murmured to Darlie. “And be very quiet.”
He came back in with a chair, set it down, dropped into it. “So,” he said with a grin, “read any good books lately?”
15
She thought of herself as Sylvia. It was the name she used when she and Isaac were alone, the name she’d like to use when the game was done and they were living the high life. Sylvia was classy, elegant, and Isaac liked class.
The cop bitch called her Stella, but Stella was long ago. Another game, but that one had left her more dry than high. Richard Troy. Now that was a name from the past. How had that bitch of a cop known about Stella and Rich?
Rich’s flapping mouth, that’s how. It was the only way she could angle it. He must be doing time somewhere, the fucking asshole, and worked some sort of deal for flipping on her.
But how had he known to flip?
Didn’t matter. Not as long as Rich was jerking off in a cage somewhere.
She’d given the son of a bitch her best, too. More than her best. For Christ’s sake, she’d carried that sniveling brat of a kid in her belly for nine months. For Rich.
Train it, he’d said. Train it and sell it. Plenty of men like young meat, and plenty of them paid top dollar.
But he hadn’t been the one carting that weight around. He hadn’t been the one strung out for months, because drugs were off the menu.
He hadn’t wanted the kid coming out fucked up—damaged goods didn’t rate top dollar—so who’d paid that price?
Maybe it had been useful for a while, even though it cried half the goddamn day and night. Still, marks went even softer when you added a baby to the mix.
