"What does that mean?" Quinn asks.
"I was a pawn in their game," I finally say. It’s the only thing I can say truthfully.
"What does that mean?" Mayson asks.
"It means that if I didn’t do what one person wanted, they would get the other person to persuade me to do it. No matter what it took." It’s the easiest way I can explain it at this point. I don’t tell them just how far they took it. I don’t tell them that the longest I went without eating was twelve days. They would hydrate me but use food as leverage. I don’t tell them any of the bad stories. That is my nightmare to live with. "All that changed when Rosalie died. Then I was his to do what he pleased with. There were no more games." I look at Mayson. “When he found you, it was like he climbed Everest, and nothing was going to stop him from making sure you paid for what you did to him."
"Were you there when he held me captive?" Mayson asks with his eyes on me.
"I was there,” I say, and he glares at me. "Tied and bound." His eyes soften. “I tried to get free and get you help," I inform him. "I waited for him to fall asleep one night. Fall into a stupor after drinking his whiskey. I waited until I knew he was passed out before I made my move. I was going to untie you, but when I was about to pull the door open, the floor creaked. I didn’t have time to look behind me to see that he was awake. In the darkness like the devil he was, he grabbed my hair, pulling it out, and rammed my head into the wall."
I look at Mayson. “When you escaped? God, that was a good day." I smile at him, not even feeling the tears streaming down my face. “I laughed at him." I shake my head. “Which, if you haven’t figured out, he doesn’t like too much. He backhanded me, and something in me snapped, and all I could do was laugh at him. I think it was hysteria. I don’t even know how long the beating lasted. I don’t know what happened after that because everything went black, and when I woke up, we were in the car, and it was two weeks later." I ignore the gasp that fills the room. "I was in and out for most of the time. I don’t really remember much. He had to keep a low profile, so we slept in the car."
"Were you there when he followed Chelsea?" Mayson asks me. "Outside the diner."
"I was." I look at Jacob. “I was in the getaway car, handcuffed to the steering wheel. He had the keys. He came running back, started the car, and told me to go." My finger taps the bed faster and faster. “I refused. I was done with it." I force myself not to cry. He will not get any more tears from me. "I didn’t care."
"But you drove away?" Jacob says.
"Yes, well, when you have a gun pointed at your head, you pretty much listen." I look down. “I didn’t actually. I told him no, and he pulled the trigger, then he laughed and said, ‘Let’s play Russian roulette.’" The same fear runs through me. “So I took off instead of finding out if I would be lucky again. The sound of the gun clicking right next to your ear is a sound you will never ever forget."
"How much longer is this going to take?" Quinn asks, and when I look back at him, I see the rage on his face. "Ask your questions, and let’s get this over with. She needs rest."
"I have a couple more questions," Jacob says. "Where were you when he kidnapped Chelsea?"
"I was unconscious under a bed," I tell them. “I tried to warn you again. I should have learned my lesson, but he was going to kill her. There was no mistake. He was obsessed with making sure Mayson suffered hell. You"—I look at Mayson—“were his kryptonite. For as long as I can remember, it was Mayson, the one who fucked him over. Mayson is the only one who was able to escape him and his wrath." I take another deep breath.
“I thought he was gone. I opened the door and took five steps before he stepped out and found me. I begged him to kill me. I said whatever I could to make him mad enough to give me the last final blow." My hands shake. “Called him a loser. Called him a misfit. Called him a sorry excuse of a man. What kind of man makes his son win. I said everything and anything I could in order for him to kill me. With each blow, I laughed in his face. His blows would get harder and harder until I was numb. Until I was just a corpse in the middle of that smelly cabin. I don’t remember anything until Quinn found me."
I look over at Quinn, whose face is white and ashen. “I’ll be back,” he says, turning and walking out of the room. I look at his father, who follows him out.
"I don’t know what else you need me to answer," I say to the men who are left in the room. My heart beats a mile a minute. "He killed my mother and kept me because I got a check every month. He didn’t keep me because he loved me or was taking care of me. I was living in hell, and he was the gatekeeper."
“No one wants you. You are nothing, a nobody. No one would care if you died or lived,” I hear echoed in my ears. I close my eyes, trying to drown out the laughing that would come after that. I open my eyes and look out the window at Quinn, who has his back to me.
My heart feels this weird pressure in my chest, knowing what I said might have hurt him. I’ve never had anyone sit by my bed before and worry about me. I’ve never had anyone care that I was hurt. I’ve never had anyone give me even an ounce of what he gave me in the little time he’s known me. I don’t even know him, yet I know that if he’s here, I’ll be safe.
Chapter 13
Quinn
I walk out of the room, and my whole body shakes with rage. My stomach burns, and I have the sudden need to throw up. I listened to her tell her story, and I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I knew it would be a hard one, but what I didn’t realize was that she spent her whole fucking life in hell.
"You need to rein it in," my father says from behind me. I know I can’t turn around because if I do, she will see my face and the horror on it. She will see the tears running down my face. She will see that, and then she will spin it to something else. I know her, in the short time, I know her.
"Dad,” I whisper or plead, even I don’t know. “I can’t." I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. My head is spinning around and around as I replay the words. “So many things make sense. The way she didn’t want to ask for a thing or admit she needed things, like fucking water."
"You need to,” he says and walks over to stand in front of me. “There are so many holes in her story it’s not funny. And frankly"—he shakes his head—“I’m not sure I want to know them. But for her, for right now, you need to be strong."
"I can tell you what isn’t in those stories." I look at him. “There is no one tucking her in at night and telling her good night. There is no one telling her that they love her. No one kissing her when she got hurt. No one protecting her. No one." My voice drops to a whisper. “She had none of that." My heart shatters when I get the full picture.
"I know,” he says. “Trust me, I know, and I am going to be real with you right now. I don’t even think we heard the worst of it."