Page 92 of Wicked Little Secret

Turning left toward the bathroom, I realize Nyssa’s left the door open. She’s done changing, donning some kind of girlish costume.

She’s put her hair up in hasty pigtails and slipped on a pastel pink babydoll dress that barely covers her backside.

Thigh high socks and black Mary-Janes complete the strange, childish yet sexual look.

Is this what Mr. Wicker requested? He’s having her dress up like alittle girl?

She spends a second longer hiking the socks further up her thighs, hardly paying attention to her surroundings. Ifshe did, she’d see my reflection in the mirror as I flit by behind her.

I’m back to retreating, sliding open the mirrored closet door and stepping inside. It glides back into place just as she’s wandering past.

Now that she’s dressed, she leaves the bathroom to set the scene in the bedroom.

I crack open the closet’s sliding mirrored door and watch as she places a stuffed teddy bear at the pillows and pulls out a wooden paddling brush.

…what the fuck is going on!?

Nyssa misses me as I make my next move. I slip out of the closet and dart toward the nearby armchair. I crouch down in time to be out of sight when Mr. Wicker finally enters clutching their drinks. His pudgy face brightens at the scene he finds.

“Excellent, darling. You’re such a good little girl. I made you a drink.”

Don’t fucking drink that, Nyssa!

I clench my teeth and grip the knife, ready to pounce at any second.

When Mr. Wicker tries to hand the beverage to her, she folds her arms behind her back and shakes her head side to side like a child would.

“My mommy says not to accept drinks from strangers.”

He chuckles, endeared by the role-play. “But, darling, I’m not a stranger.”

“Will you read me a story?” she asks instead, then she pats the bed. “On here.”

The oaf has the same doucheface syndrome his son suffers from—at Nyssa’s suggestion, his grin stretches ear to ear and his ruddy skin gleams as if he’s been out in thehot sun. He laughs some more and then says, “Of course, darling. But I’d prefer if you drink up first.”

“Story first!”

“Nyssa, are you going to be a good little girl or am I going to have to take you over my knee and paddle you?” he scolds.

I shift to launch myself from where I’ve hidden behind the armchair, then I stop.

Something else I haven’t noticed until now has caught my eye. Along with the wooden paddle, storybook, and teddy bear Nyssa’s set out, is a card that’s been placed on the bedside table.

A black, heart-shaped card with white lettering spelling out Jackson Wicker.

Valentine.

It can’t be what I think it is. Nyssa can’t be…

That would make no sense. It would be impossible.Morethan impossible.

My head hurts trying to make sense of this development. The past aches inside me like an old battle wound that hasn’t healed while the present seems determined to rip it the rest of the way open…

“I said drink up,” Mr. Wicker growls, grabbing Nyssa by the chin to force the beverage down. “Bad little girls disobey. Bad little girls get punished! Do you want to get punished? DRINK IT!”

“I SAID NO!”

Nyssa jabs a defensive knee into his gut before he can make her.

---