Page 172 of Unwrapping Deviance

Then I just sit.

It’s stupid. In a horror movie, I would be screaming at the stupid bitch to get her shit together and break down after she’s gotten help.

But I don’t.

I stare at the unassuming pile of logs in the middle of nowhere harboring one of the worst secrets I will ever experience — hopefully — in my life. But how long? How long was Lucy bringing Dirk and Boyd girls and letting them rape, torture and kill them? Did she know about the bodies? Did she even ask what they did with them once they were done?

And why? Why would someone do that to another human being?

I suck in a breath as the first tear falls. Then the next. I cry for the girls. For myself. I cry because I can’t believe I actually survived. The adrenaline and horror are fading fast and hysteria is building up like a rising tide threatening to drown me.

No. No.NO!

I need to get home.

I need my boys.

I need a shower.

Then, I need to find Lucy and beat the fuck out of her.

Set on my new mission, I get the keys into the ignition, turn over the engine and freeze.

Dots of light bob over the horizon behind me, streaks of yellow splintering across the rear view mirror as a small caravan rumbles up.

My fingers tighten around the wheel. My foot twitches over the gas. I’m ready to run down anyone who tries to stop me from getting home.

No less than ten vehicles pull up behind me, blocking my escape. My heart thumps as I wonder if Lucy has brought friends to have their fun.

“Mira!”

The familiar bellow of my name spikes through my gut. It slams into my chest, a flutter of both panic and excitement when twin figures tumble out of a big, white truck.

Their names pulse out of me, broken with elation as I kick open the door and practically fall out onto the grass.

I’m running before I even straighten. I’m closing the distance, I think. It’s like running in a dream. My legs may be doing it, but I don’t feel it until I’ve collided with a rock hard chest.

I don’t know who catches me. I don’t know whose neck I’m squeezing or whose hips my legs are locked around.

I don’t care as the horror I’d been bottling back finally shatters and I break into a million pieces in their arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

DANIEL

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A mild concussion.

A dislocated shoulder.

Two stitches over her left brow.

Several lacerations and bruises.

Otherwise — according to Jefferson’s three thousand year old doctor who had delivered my mom, dad and both Chris and I — she’s perfectly fine.

“Full recovery,” Dr. Hammell assures us, pressing a cherry flavored sucker into Mira’s hand.

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