Page 8 of The Devil's Secret

Elliot hysterically laughs, while Mom lets him go, her rounded eyes flying between my brother and me. “When did this insanity happen?”

“While you were at work one morning.” I glare at my brother, remembering how pissed I was when I sneezed, and the cream flew into my mouth. He ran so fast while I chased him, shaving cream dripping down to the floor.

“I always miss the good stuff.” Mom frowns.

“How about we get some shaving cream now and re-create the scene, hmm, Elliot?” My eyes zero in on my brother. “But this time, it’s your ass who’s grass.”

Elliot gets ready to run.

“Oh, stop, you two,” Mom chides. “You’re leaving tomorrow for two ridiculous months,” she says to me. “Why don’t the three of us have a nice day at home with a movie, too much popcorn, and lots of ice cream?”

“Okay, but I pick the movie,” I say.

“Um, no!” Elliot grimaces. “I’m not sitting through some stupid chick movie.”

“It’s called a chick flick, doofus.”

“Whatever it’s called, I’m not watching it.”

“I wasn’t even going to pick a girlie one, relax. Sheesh.”

“Fine. Whatever. Pick something good.”

“I’ll make the popcorn.” Mom takes a step back, heading for the stairs. “Hopefully that’ll shut both of you up for a while.”

“Hey!” we both mutter in unison while she grins facetiously, waving as she disappears down the stairs.

* * *

That was the second to last time I saw them before I left in my Jeep the next morning, all smiles, my two friends waving to my mom and brother as we drove away. I never thought that would be the last time we were all together.

They’re states away from where I am. I’m to have no contact with them, or Robby and I will be killed. I’d cut my own throat before I let anything happen to my son.

My focus is on doing whatever they say and trying to find a way to get Robby away from their grip, and eventually run away with him.

I realize that dream is far-fetched, but if I don’t visualize our escape, if I don’t try to come up with some kind of plan, I’ll feel even more hopeless than I do already. But how? How could I not only get away, but save my son in the process?

They only allow me to see him once a month at an undisclosed location, and that only began when I tried to kill myself shortly after he was taken from me. They have a driver pick me up, put a hood and blindfold over my eyes and take me to where he is. Every time it’s a different place, and every time I only get to see him and hold him for ten minutes. Once they say we have to go, Robby cries so hard, while I sob on the floor as one man in a mask drags him away, and another pulls on my body, my soul already gone.

It’s like a never-ending wound, festering, eating into the agony that’s always building with a fresh coat of pain.

I have no one. No real friends. No boyfriend. And even if I were allowed to have a man in my life, who’d want me anyway? I sleep with men for money. I can’t fall in love.

Love. It’s laughable really. How would a man feel, knowing what I’ve done? What I have to do? What I’m not allowed to stop doing?

The center of my chest burns from the shame, from the disgust of my actions, even when I don’t have a say.

I’ve been drugged. I’ve been beaten by those who pay to do whatever they want to me. They’ve captured my tears, the cries, begging them to stop, but they never do. They rather enjoy my suffering.

After a while, I learned to stopped screaming, not giving them what they wanted. They’d hurt me harder because of it, hoping to break me, but my mind went somewhere else. Somewhere they aren’t. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere my son and I can be together, along with my mom and Elliot. We’re happy, watching a movie with too much popcorn and lots of ice cream. Yeah, that’s what we do. Maybe, one day, we can actually do it. Together.

Something tickles my cheeks, and when I look into the mirror, sitting in the dressing room, I realize I’ve been crying. I don’t even cry loudly anymore. I haven’t been able to do that for years. The tears sometimes come silently, but I rarely feel them on my face or in my heart. It’s like I’ve become numb. And maybe that’s a good thing.

So whoever this Patrick is, however nice he seems, I need to stay numb. I can’t develop any sort of feelings for any man, friendship or otherwise. There’s no point. I can’t tell him who I am. I can’t be with him. He’s nothing but a customer, a gorgeous customer, but still, someone I can’t know.

Patrick, with his thick, mahogany strands and strong jaw, is nothing more than any other man whose money is the only thing I’m after. It’s the only way to keep my enemies happy. He can have what he pays for and nothing else.

My heart seizes in my chest when I remember how he looked at me, those emerald eyes analyzing me as though burrowing into my brain, into my heart—it was unnerving.

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