Page 50 of Oathbreaker

Trying to shake off the unsettling feeling, I pocket my phone just as Winter reappears, her expression guarded. I stand, my eyes searching hers for clues about what happened behind the closed door.

“Everything okay?” I ask, my words slow.

She nods, but the tightness in her features suggests otherwise. “Just a checkup,” she replies. The small smile she gives me appears peaceful, but the faint muscle tick in her cheek betrays her vulnerability. “Nothing to worry about.”

The loops on Kitty’s harness jingle as he moves to stand against her leg.

I take Winter’s hand, offering silent support and shoving away the fuckery with BwP and the unknown number.

As we leave the clinic, clouds roll in, promising freezing rain.

“Let’s go back home,” Winter says. Exhaustion laces her tone. She squeezes my hand, a small gesture of connection amidst the fucked-up menagerie of uncertainty swirling inside me.

“Yes, baby. Let’s.”

TWELVE

WINTER

The cartoon-clad clock my mom bought at The Disney Store shows that it’s 3:34 a.m.

He is half an hour later than usual.

This room feels so different now.

My Barbie Dreamhouse still sits in the corner of my room. Except now, it’s collecting dust.

Stapled pictures of Mom and Dad line the wall alongside pictures of Veronica and me and my Destiny’s Child and NSYNC* posters.

Everything looks so much the same. But everything is different. Rotten. Cold. Dead.

I feel him move around the room after he closes the door with a quiet snick.

I know what he wants me to do.

I turn over and lay flat on my stomach. He doesn’t hurt me as much when I make it easy for him.

The bed dips as he puts a knee on the mattress and pulls the blanket off my body.

His body presses against my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. With a thunk, the heavy switchblade lands on my nightstand. I don’t have to look to know that the blade is extended and ready to inflict quick agony.

I breathe in.

Wrong. Wrong. This is wrong. Everything buzzes, electrified. My eyes snap toward the wall and lock on the image of me, Mom, and Dad.

It was at my dad’s promotion dinner when he was made Chief of Neurosurgery. Mom was in her second year as a U.S. Representative to our corner of northern Virginia, and the stress of the job was getting to her. I’d hear her talk to Dad about it when they thought I wasn’t listening. She said she was over D.C. politics. She didn’t feel like she could make a difference, that the system was set and there was no changing it. Daddy would rub her hand and kiss her cheek. Sometimes, they’d dance in the living room to Luther Vandross, and Daddy would sing to her off-key. He was a terrible singer.

I miss his singing.

Mom and Daddy look happy in the picture. Smiling. And I’m between them both. My smile is wide, gap-toothed.

Pain.

My mouth opens as if to shout. To cry out. To beg him to stop. But I don’t dare.

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