Page 27 of The Plunge

Libby shrugs. "In a way, you could say that. It's only the short version, though."

She takes a deep breath before she goes on. "The long version is that I've always been seen as some kind of troublemaker. I never really belonged to the circles I grew up in. I wasn't a well-behaved little girl. I was loud, angry, and violent with a constant cry for attention. And when I got old enough, the boys started listening to that cry. There are many names for a girl like I was back then—a slut, a whore, or simply promiscuous. I didn't always give; sometimes things were taken from me without asking. It was only a matter of time until one of them would impregnate me. And when it did, it happened with the wrong boy."

She stops, shaking her head while a sad smile graces her face.

"Well, no, actually he was the right boy, very right," she corrects herself. "A good boy, an heir to an empire of wealth that surpasses that of my family's by far. He was right in every aspect, but the circumstances weren't. And I certainly wasn't right for him. It was a joint decision by both of our families to send me away until I'd given birth to the child. Out of sight, out of mind. They told me I should give the child up for adoption. I was an embarrassment to them. I was never asked what I wanted."

I grimace at her ugly story. It sounds like a tale from old times when things like that happened to young aristocratic girls all the time. I never thought that such practices were still held up nowadays.

How backward can people be? How cruel?

Fucking picture perfect.

"That's fucked up," I remark, causing her to let out a hurt little laugh.

"It really was, yeah," she agrees. "I never felt welcomed in my uncle's home, but I had nowhere else to go after my parents' death. It was almost a relief when they sent me away."

I'm surprised at the way my chest tightens at her words. We never talked about her parents, but it should come as no surprise to me that they're both dead. If Clyde Abbott is her uncle, she must be the daughter of Jane and August Clyde, a couple who died in a car accident almost twenty years ago. I've seen their names on one of our lists marked as 'dead' and listed with no offspring. They didn't die at the Covey's hand, and they were part of the outer circle of the family, dead for so long that no one paid any further attention to them when we started our mission about five years ago.

And the result of that negligence is now sitting next to me.

"But you never carried your child to term," I probe. "They didn't take you back when you lost it?"

She shakes her head. "It was too late for me at that point. I was spoiled goods. They sent me to boarding school on the other side of the country, as far away as possible. And to be honest, I was pretty okay with that."

She pauses, catching my eyes before she adds, "I never really belonged. In a way, that tragic pregnancy was a blessing in disguise because it enabled me to get away from a family that never provided me with a happy home. I've always been treated as an outcast, a troubled kid—and I lived up to that image. Of course, it hurt, but really, it wasn't all bad to get away from that."

I nod along as she speaks, knowing all too well what she's talking about.

Not belonging, being treated like an outcast.

"I know the feeling."

The words escape before I can stop myself, and they're met with Libby's instant attention.

"Yeah?" she asks. "Is that why you're doing this... job? A bad family history?"

A cynical tone laces her words, almost as if she was ridiculing me.

"I'm doing this job because I'm good at it," I say. "And I don't have a bad family history. I have no history at all. I never met my parents because I was given up for adoption right after I was born. And none of the foster parents I had would deserve the name father or mother."

Her expression softens. "Oh, I'm sorry."

I'm not sure how I feel about the way she looks at me now with such empathy and care. After all I've done to her, she's the one feeling sorry for me just because I shared some of the darkness of my upbringing with her.

It paints a new kind of beauty on her face, something so raw and honest, very different from the cute little punk she was when I first saw her. She looks even younger without all that color in her face, and while she bore more resemblance to a ghost than anything else during her first days with me, a healthy color has returned to her cheeks. It's good to see her healing and regaining her strength, and it fills me with a weird sense of power, knowing that I was the one who made that possible.

I took her to a place where she could get help. I made sure she was taken care of.

I protected her, and I will continue to do so.

It may not make up for all the sins I've committed under the Covey's command, but it gives me a sense of satisfaction and hope.

Hope that I'm moving in the right direction.

Wherever that may lead me.

Or us.

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