Page 42 of Retribution
Susannah nods and thanks him. After saying our goodbyes we drive back to the office and head inside, waving hello to Denise who looks flustered by the many ringing phones. She gives us a nod back, too busy taking notes to do more.
Collapsing on one of the sofas, Susannah hands me a soda before making herself a coffee. Ugh, I don’t know how she drinks that shit. A shiver runs over me. Nasty.
Kim joins us, the three of us silent, lost in our own thoughts. Until Tommy, the intern, rushes in. He really needs to stop doing that, it’s never good news.
“A body has been found at a vacation rental just outside town. Flagstaff PD is requesting assistance.”
Blowing out a large breath, I stand, tossing my can into the recycling bin.
“Detective Latham too,” Tommy adds. “Umm, it’s one of your own.”
Fuck.
Chapter 24
Rebecca
Nine Years Ago
Iwant to go home. I miss mom and dad. I hate it here. Papa’s attitude adjustments, Momma’s yelling. I want to shout at them, You’re not my parents!
But the last time I did that, Papa locked me in a small cage for two weeks. There was no toilet, not even a bucket. He gave me one bottle of water and one small meal a day. After two weeks of sitting in my own filth, starving and going crazy, he finally let me out. I thought that would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
For talking back, I got the cage. For refusing to answer to Rebecca, I was whipped. When it was over, and I was hanging by my wrists, my legs collapsed under me, blood running down my back, Papa got out the hose. He poured powder over me, the kind mom used to use to wash clothes. It burned. It was like fire tearing over me, and my screams echoed throughout the room.
I could hear the other girls crying upstairs, one of them screaming. Quin, Queenie, Quentin, and Quincy. My sisters. They tried to help me, warned me to behave. To do as Papa said, no matter what.
I should have listened to them.
It's now been two years since then, and I've had quite a few of Papa'sattitude adjustments. I’m better now, mostly. I’m good and do what Papa wants, even though it’s gross and I hate it.
I’m currently the last one left, my sisters having gone one-by-one to their new homes. We’re not allowed to live here anymore, once we turn twenty-one. That’s the rule. Papa says he must train us to be good, so that when we go to our new houses, that the men there will like us.
If they do the things Papa does to me, I don’t want them to like me. Most days I wish I could die.
That tickly, gross feeling rushes over me, the one that means you’re gonna puke. Rushing into the bathroom, I throw up into the toilet, over and over until I fall to the floor. This has been happening for the past few days, but I haven’t told Momma. I’m afraid she’ll be mad at me.
“What are you doing, girl?” her voice screams at me. Turning my head too quickly, a moan pours out of me as another wave of vomit comes, splashing the floor tiles.
“Little slut!” grabbing me by my hair, she pulls me out of the room, my legs scrambling, trying to stand up. Howls perforate the silence of the hall as she drags me down it, taking me into another bathroom that I’m not allowed to use.
Tossing me to the floor, she rummages through one of the drawers before pulling out a long, slim box. Pulling a white stick out of it, she thrusts it at me. “Sit on the toilet and pee on this,” she orders, her face a mottled angry red.
I do as she asks, lifting my dress up to avoid splatters. It’s hard to go when she’s watching me, but I finally manage a trickle and hold it out to her when I’m done. Slapping it down on the counter, she watches the clock on the wall while I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth.
“Fucking little slut, if you’re knocked up I’m going to fucking kill you,” she mutters under her breath. “Sick to fucking death of dealing with this. Why he doesn’t put them on birth control, I’ll never know.”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but my body freezes when I hear the word birth. Birth means baby, right? Crap. I think back to health class in fifth grade, what the teacher told us about our bodies. I’m only twelve! I can’t have a baby here, not in this place. Watching myself in the mirror, tears stream down my face as I place my shaking hand over my tummy.
“Fuck!” Momma shouts when she picks up the stick. Grabbing my arm, she pulls me from the room. Hurrying to keep up, she drags me down the stairs, waving the stick in Papa’s face as he sits watching TV.
“Look what you’ve done!” she screeches at him. He stands, grabbing the stick from her.
Storming over to us, he backhands me, knocking me to the floor with a cry. “You did this on purpose! Fucking whore!” His leg kicks back, then connects with my back, over and over as I hunch over my belly, protecting the life inside me.
“I’m sorry, Papa!” I cry out, desperate for relief. When he tires, he flops down on the sofa, running his hands through his dark hair.
