Page 63 of Silenced

I want to be mad, and I am, but I’m also tired despite sleeping more than I have in months—thirty-six hours according to him.

I guess I’m world-weary.

Apathetic.

Part of that was down to what Harvey did to me, yet the fatalism is new.

Not caring whether I live or die is something that’s been developing since I first took off but here, now, the old me is at war with the new one.

Pre-Harvey Cassie would have slapped a man for suggesting she sit on his knee while she ate from his fingers.

New Cassie recognizes that in this room, I actuallyamsafe from Harvey. As well as any random mobsters my ex-husband set on my ass by being a moron.

Old Cassie, never mind Pre-Harvey Cassie, wouldn’t permit a stranger to touch her pussy.

New Cassie?

She enjoyed the orgasm.

“You are thinking too much.”

I translate the words he signs without even realizing I’m doing it. I’ve grown rusty over years with no use and ASL is definitely not like riding a bike, but I remember enough to get by.

“What can I do when you won’t talk to me? When I can’t talk to anyone? When I don’t have anything to entertain me but my thoughts?”

Seeming to ignore my questions, he tilts his head. “Do you believe me when I tell you you’re safe here?”

“I’m not safe from you, though, am I?” I argue, face expressionless as I take a seat on his knee like that’s normal.

“That isn’t what I asked,” he signs.

“I’m safe from Harvey,” I agree, weariness making me sit deeper on his lap than I’d like—my hip brushes his abs.

I learned my lesson yesterday, after all. Comply and I only have to sit on his knee. Disobey and I have to straddle him.

“You’re safe from everyone.” His fingers manipulate that final word, imbuing it with irritation.

My lips tighten as I stare at the tray on the table. Then, I dare ask a question, uncertain if he’ll know the answer or if he’ll give it to me if he does: “Why did Harvey have a debt with the Albanians?”

“He wanted to buy Viagra from them, but he didn’t like the price.” He surprises me by replying. “He beat the dealer, got the drugs, but they caught up to him before he could get away and made him regret the day he was born.”

That has my brows lifting—Harvey was dealt a taste of his own medicine.

Apparently, my apathy isn’tsobad. Not if I can enjoy him being handed some karma.

“They still have him?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “He escaped. I have a man looking for him. He won’t get to you again.”

Because I know Harvey too well, that doesn’t fill me with reassurance.

I’m clearly a terrible person because I was hoping the Albanians had killed him.

It takes me a few beats to register that he signed a word I don’t recognize.

“What does that mean?” I sign, copying the movements he made before.

“It means ‘little sun’ in Russian.”

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