Page 40 of Ginger

Martin's bloodshot eyes followed my movements, darting occasionally to Bronx's imposing figure as he stationed himself directly behind the chair. Fear had temporarily sobered him, though I could see the tremors in his hands that spoke of regular, heavy drinking.

"Please," he started. "Whatever she told you—"

I backhanded him across the face, the sound echoing sharply in the concrete room. "You don't get to speak unless I ask you a question. Understand?"

He nodded, a thin line of fresh blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

I pulled another folding chair from against the wall, set it up facing him, and sat down, close enough that our knees almost touched. Behind him, Bronx cracked his knuckles, the sound loud and echoing.

"Here's how this works," I said, keeping my voice calm, conversational even. "I'm going to ask you questions. You're going to answer honestly. Every time I think you're lying, Bronx here is going to hurt you. Every time you try to minimize what you did, I'm going to hurt you. Simple enough?"

Martin swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. "What do you want to know?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything," I replied. "Let's start with the basics. Ginger came to live with you when she was what—nine? Ten? After her parents died in that car accident?"

"Eight," he corrected, then seemed to regret speaking at all. "She was eight and a half."

"Eight and a half," I repeated, letting the words hang in the stale air between us. "A little girl who'd just lost everything, who needed protection, love, security. And instead, she got you."

His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet mine.

"How long did you wait?" I asked, my voice hardening. "How long before you started?"

"I don't know what you—"

My fist connected with his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a pained whoosh. He doubled over as far as the zip ties would allow, gasping.

"Wrong answer," I said. "Let's try again. How long did you wait before you started abusing your niece?"

He coughed, struggling to regain his breath. "It wasn't—it wasn't like that."

Bronx stepped forward, his massive hand closing around the back of Martin's neck, squeezing just enough to make his point. Martin's face began to redden, his eyes bulging slightly.

"One more chance," I said.

"A few years," Reed gasped when Bronx released him. "Maybe less. I don't remember exactly."

"You don't remember," I repeated, my voice flat. "You don't remember when you first molested your niece."

The single bulb swung gently overhead, casting our shadows in a slow, hypnotic dance across the floor. Martin's sweating face alternated between harsh light and forgiving shadow with each swing.

"It was Christmas," he suddenly said, the words tumbling out as if he couldn't keep them in anymore. "She was crying in her room. I went in to check on her."

My stomach turned, but I kept my face impassive. "Go on."

"She wanted comfort. I just—I was trying to make her feel better." He licked his lips, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. "Things just... happened."

I stood up so quickly my chair skittered backward across the concrete. In two steps, I was directly in front of him, my hand shooting out to grip his throat.

"Things don't 'just happen,'" I snarled, squeezing just enough to restrict his airflow without cutting it off completely. "Men like you make choices. Deliberate, monstrous choices."

I released him and stepped back, trying to control the fury that threatened to overwhelm my careful approach. This wasn't about my rage—this was about Ginger. About giving her justice, about making Martin admit what he'd done.

"How often?" I asked, once I'd regained my composure. "How often did you abuse her?"

Martin hesitated, calculating. I could see him trying to determine the right answer, the one that might hurt him least. Bronx saw it too and slammed his fist into the back of the chair, making Martin jump.

"Two or three times a month," he finally admitted. "In the beginning."

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