Page 60 of The Woman I’ve Become

I watch her carry the dishware to the sink. She seems different now. Maybe it’s because some of the subterfuge is over. Or perhaps because it has just begun. Whatever the case, she has no idea the depth of evil she’s talking about.

Acacia settles on her stool once more when I remain at the island. “What about Wendy? Do you want to kill her too? I mean, if she’s the one who started this, and it’s necessary?”

“I expect whatever she has been through is payment enough for what she did. You might go so far as to say we’re even. She should just let it go, and maybe we’ll both survive.”

Acacia’s face tells me she does not like the answer. She almost appears angry at my words. “That’s an interesting way to look at what happened to her.”

Like I said, the girl has no idea. Really, not a fucking clue. She has only one carefully curated side of the story. And it’s not mine.

“I suppose it is, but I have my reasons.” I stand. “I think I’ll call Olivia and see how she’s doing.” Then I’m going to call Helen and make sure she’s okay. She shouldn’t have had to be a part of this, but there was no one I trusted more to receive that message.

Acacia takes my soda can, feels that it’s not empty, and finishes it off, all the while staring at me.

Whatever else she thinks or has to say, I’m not listening.

I have much more pressing concerns just now. I want so badly to take Olivia and just disappear and never look back.

But I fully understand there is no way to escape what’s coming.

The events that have led to this moment can no longer be ignored or outrun.

Seventeen Years Ago

25

Wendy

Manhattan, New York

As best I can determine, I have been here three years, give or take.

I have no idea what day it is. I only know what he allows me to know. His mention of holidays and weather are my only gauge of time. I have been here two Christmases and three springs.

My space is maybe ten by ten, with a sleep mat and pillows as well as a portable toilet. There are bars and locks. It reminds me of a large dog kennel.

Today he has not come for me. I think because I am very sick.

I lie on my mat and wish I would just go ahead and die. But then I resist the idea and promise myself I will find a way to escape. I have done this over and over. It’s the only way to stay sane.

On the rare occasion he leaves me outside my cage, I can wander the room, but I have never been able to get back to the double doors I first entered on this lower level. This belowground space has been my prison all these years. I have not seen the sunlight or felt the wind on my face in all this time. I have heard other voices—muffled by the walls that contain me, but I have seen only him.

There are several small rooms on this level. Some very extravagant. Those are the ones in which we play the games he so loves. Then there is another room that looks like an old-world dungeon. That is the one I always dread. He uses the whip and other devices to give me pain. He likes when I scream.

I close my eyes and try to block all the things he has done to me. I thought I was so savvy, but I had no idea about these awful things.

I believed him to be quite old when I first saw him, but he’s not as old as I thought. Maybe sixty-one or two now.

There are other people who come and go in this grand house, but none ever come down here. And, of course, I never go upstairs. If I’m in the main room of this floor, I can sometimes hear the footsteps and the muted voices. I’ve tried screaming and breaking things when I hear the voices, and I only end up paying a heavy price. The punishment is always severe. I guess no one can hear me down here, but he knows. Although I have seen no evidence of cameras, he always somehow knows.

Casey has never returned for me, and by now I understand he’s not coming back. When I’ve cried and pleaded for the man to release me, he only says that I belong to him now.

I close my eyes and try to breathe better. I am so very sick. It feels like the flu I had once when I was sixteen. I’m hot and I can’t breathe very well. I ache all over. I just want to die.

Maybe this is how I’m leaving this shitty world. That really sucks considering I thought I’d already paid my dues by having my father end up in prison when I was five and then he got shanked when I was ten. My mother was a drug addict and OD’d well before that. Then there were all the foster homes and the too-touchy-feely foster dads and foster uncles.

Bastards.

But none of it ever came close to this. This is some super bad shit. The old man is an evil motherfucker. He’s well educated and very rich but pure evil.