Page 39 of The Shape of my Scar
An old brick farmhouse with a slanted roof stood to the side. It looked quaint from the outside, like a postcard. Next to it stood a warehouse with a long, low, corrugated metal roof. There was the smell of diesel in the air and the hum of a generator running.
As he stepped out of the vehicle, a tall man in fatigues approached. Rough efficient hands patted him down. Another man with a full beard checked his waistband, under his collar,even scanned his shoes. His phone, as arranged, had been surrendered at the base in Liverpool.
Three men, rough and scarred, greeted Trish. One had the silhouette of a handgun pressed into the front of his trousers, making no attempt to conceal it. Another chewed something slowly and spat on the dirty path while eyeing Thane suspiciously.
“Let him come,” Trish said over her shoulder.
Inside, the air smelled of bleach, sweat, and old wood. A long room stretched ahead, lined with bunk beds—at least twenty of them. Thin mattresses lined them and there were blankets folded on every bed. But there wasn’t a single child.
“This,” Trish said without turning to him, “is our holding house, where we keep the merchandise that’s too fresh to go on display.”
A woman stepped out from the back room. She was thin, pale, wrapped in a worn jumper two sizes too big. Her blonde hair was pulled back messily. And her eyes—sharp, frightened and deep blue—locked onto Thane like she was trying to place him before looking away.
But something in her presence tugged at him, like a thread he couldn’t quite place, tightening with each passing second. Against his better judgment, he moved closer, drawn into her orbit.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, voice pitched low enough not to carry.
She gave a stiff nod, cautious, guarded. “As alright as anyone is in a place like this.”
Her voice was soft like the fragile flutter of a butterfly’s wing caught in a spider’s web.
“What’s your name?” he pressed, curious, steady.
“Theodora.” Her gaze dipped, lashes shadowing her face. Her fingers worried at the frayed edge of her jumper, tugging loosethreads as though they were safer than looking at him. Then, after a beat, there was a fragile tilt to her full mouth, “They don’t usually let the men talk to us.”
“I’m not one of them,” he said, quieter still.
That made her look up. Her eyes flicked to his, quick and sharp, as though searching his face for something familiar. The moment stretched.
“Then who are you?” she asked. The wariness was still there, but curiosity bled through, widening her pale blue eyes. Her tone hinted that maybe-just maybe-she thought she might have seen him before.
Thane offered a small, crooked smile. “That’s a good question.”
A flicker passed over her face. Amusement? Recognition? Or just clever mimicry? She gave the smallest breath of laughter, barely audible, like she’d let herself slip for an instant. Then, almost as quickly, she ducked her head, voice lowering to a low hush.
“I don’t ask too many questions,” she murmured, letting the edge of a secret coil between them. “That’s how I stay useful.”
Her words lingered, bait hanging just out of reach, and Thane found himself leaning in—like she’d meant him to all along. A steadying hand reached out when she seemed to sway. Her flesh was cool beneath his palm.
“To them?”
She paused before stuttering. “T-t-to the children. I help clean. I change and darn clothes. Sometimes I feed them.”
“Do they let you speak to them?” he asked.
“I am not supposed to,” she said, but from the sound of her, she obviously did speak to them.
She tilted her chin up slightly, brows pulled together as if in pain. “I try to make it…less terrifying for them. But I can’t do much.”
Thane tried to keep his expression relaxed but his voice held tension. “You do what you can. That’s more than most.”
Their eyes held for a moment—hers full of sorrow, his with concern.
She was good.
Too good.
She looked fragile. But survivors were more than how they looked.
