Page 25 of Jayson
I refuse to lie to myself again. Even if the truth is the blade that finally breaks what’s left of me.
When the hum of the basement fades, and the cold creeps into my bones just slow enough to make me feel alive, it happens. That’s when it comes. The memory I’ve buried so deep, I convinced myself it never happened. But it did.
FLASHBACK
I was thirteen the first time I understood the price tag on my life.
A stranger sat in our living room—immaculate suit, cuff links that caught the chandelier light. He looked like he’d stepped out of another universe, one where men wore power the way others wore skin. And when his eyes found me in the doorway, they lit with a quiet, covetous spark—as if I were the thing he’d spent years hunting.
My father poured the man a drink—always the same bottle of eighteen-year old scotch, always the same crystal tumblers. Ritual masquerading as hospitality. Their voices dropped to that low, dangerous register men use when they’re bartering something of value.
I should have walked away, but my name floated through the crack in the door and rooted me in place.
“She’s growing up fast,” the stranger murmured, voice smooth.
My heart stuttered.
Then came the sound I can’t scrape out of my skull: my father’s chuckle—soft, indulgent, almost proud.
“Give it a few more years,” he said, as casually as discussing a vintage. “Then we’ll see.”
Air deserted my lungs. I backed down the hallway, silent as a secret, clutching the banister until the wood bit crescents into my palms. I told no one. I did what I’d been taught: bury everything deep enough that even memory would struggle to exhume it.
Maybe that was the mistake. Maybe if I’d spoken, time might have buckled, the future bent a different way. But I stayed silent, because on some unlit level I already understood:
I wasn’t his daughter. I was inventory—an asset accruing value with every year I grew. And anyone who loved me was collateral, waiting for the ledger to come due.
The door unlocks with a slow, deliberate scrape—metal rasping metal like teeth being bared. I keep my posture rigid on the bench, foot propped on the folded towel Nina dropped offan hour ago. The swelling is ugly now, the skin stretched tight and mottled purple. It pulses with every heartbeat.
Jayson steps across the threshold, closing the door behind him with careful finality. He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, shoulders squared under the low bulb, the narrow room suddenly two sizes smaller for holding him.
His gaze flicks downward first—automatic, restless—landing on my elevated ankle. Something flickers in his eyes: irritation, regret, something that looks suspiciously like concern. Then he snatches it back, drags his stare up to my face, and locks on.
The silence hums between us, high-voltage, about to arc.
I break it. “Back to finish boarding windows?”
“Back to discuss your talent for bad ideas.” His voice is low, flat, but a vein in his neck thrums erratically. “Jumping two feet on a busted ankle? That’s not bravery, Keira—that’s suicide.”
“Funny,” I say, folding my arms. “You sound worried.”
He takes a slow step forward, boots scuffing the concrete. “Worried implies I expect you to make things easier. I don’t. I expect you to survive long enough to answer questions.”
“Oh, so I’m homework now?” I force a bitter smile. “Guess I should have stayed, asked you which chapter of captivity we’re on.”
His jaw ticks. “We’re on the chapter where you sit still, heal, and stop testing how far I can bend before I break you in a way that you can’t be fixed.”
Heat creeps up my throat. “The door was locked. The window was my only option.”
“And you proved exactly why you can’t be trusted to be left alone.”
I swallow a curse, shift my injured foot and wince. The pain is sharp, but not as sharp as the silence strangling us.
He comes closer, crowding the small room with static. “Whyrun, Keira? How far did you think you’d get before I caught up with you?”
“As far as I possibly could.” My voice cracks on the edge of frustration.
A muscle feathers in his cheek. His breath snags. For a moment, I think he’ll reach for me—shake sense into me, maybe—but he folds his arms instead, caging the tension against his ribs. Long seconds drag past, thick with unfinished sentences.
