Page 98 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Speaking of,” Pat says, turning back to her. “Are your chores done?”

“No,” Lindsay grumbles, her cheeks darkening.

“Off you go.”

Lindsay disappears, muttering under her breath, while Pat shakes her head.

“First step to rejoining society is teaching them a strong work ethic. Can’t have them going out there and ending up right back where they started.”

“So, this is a place for people . . .” I start, but the words trail off.

“People who went through hell.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat, looking around. They’re all so . . . normal.

“Each of our girls was a victim of ST,” Pat explains. “We don’t like to say the word around here. It can be triggering for some.”

“Miss Pat,” a young voice says, and my heart flutters when I see the little girl who can’t be more than eight years old when she tugs on Pat’s hand.

“Why, yes, Miss Lily? What can I do for you?”

“Can you braid my hair?”

“I can’t braid,” Pat says. “I’m sorry. Never learned.”

“I know how,” I say, surprising even myself. There’s a brief moment of silence, and I know Pat’s going to shut it down, but before she can, Lily speaks up.

“Canyoubraid my hair, then?”

“What do we say?” Pat corrects her. “This is Mrs. C.”

“Please?”

I look back at Christian, who gives a subtle nod.

“I would love to.”

Lily squeals in delight, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the hall and into one of the classrooms. Christian hangs back, but I only have a brief glimpse of him watching me before she pulls me around the corner.

The classroom turned bedroom is what you’d expect out of a dormitory. Bunk beds line each of the walls, with the center of the room open with a table littered with crayons and coloringbooks. A couple girls sit, chatting while they draw, but Lily pays them no mind.

“This is my bed,” she says proudly, pulling me to the pink-covered bottom cot, the wall littered with pictures she’s drawn.

“It’s a very nice bed,” I concede when she pushes me to sit down on it. It’s not. It’s worn and used. There’s a spring sticking out of the mattress on the side, but it’s all she has, and that makes my throat swell.

She rifles through a little plastic trunk underneath before producing an old hairbrush that appears to be older than I am.

“Here. And you’ll need this.” She hands me a string of silk ribbon that matches her bedding. My heart stutters in my chest when I realize it’s a piece that tore.

I’m thankful when she turns around and grabs one of the little chairs at the center table, pulling it between my legs and plopping down in it.

She can’t see the tears in my eyes that way.

I have a feeling they’ve seen enough heartache and pain to last a lifetime here. They don’t need mine, too.

“How long have you been here, Lily?” I ask while I brush her hair. The couple of girls who were coloring have left, so now it’s just her and me in the bedroom. It’s calm. Peaceful despite what this place is. I imagine it’s become a sanctuary for people like Lily. I don’t know her story, but to end up here, of all places when she should be enjoying her childhood, it can’t be good.

“Ummm . . . Two years. I think.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

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