Page 101 of Into the Fire

“No.” She swallowed and turned her attention to the garden. Grabbed a dead stalk and yanked it out of the ground with more force than necessary. “I don’t like thinking about him.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

“Not by choice.” She hurled the shriveled, deformed plant into the waste pile a few feet away. “I’d like to forget him. Erase every single memory of him from my mind.”

“Maybe talking about them instead of holding them inside would help you let them go.”

Her lips twisted. “That’s what the social worker told my mom and dad.” She waved a hand over the garden. “If you don’t jump in, we’ll be scrambling to finish before the sun sets.”

Message received.

He grasped a warped stem devoid of life and gave her space to decide what, and how much, she wanted to share.

After two or three minutes of silence, she resumed speaking.

“Mom and Dad took me to counseling, but it didn’t solve my problem. The counselor was nice, but my trust level was zero. The only therapy that helped was being outside, in the sunshine, with my parents close by.” Her hands froze, and she peeked over at him. “I still sleep with a light on in my room.”

A suspicion began to form in his mind. One that twisted his gut.

“Why?” It took every ounce of his self-control to keep the rage building inside him in check. “What did your birth father do to you in the dark?”

She focused on yanking the roots of a distorted plant free from the hard, unyielding ground. “Not what you’re thinking.”

Thank God for that.

“So what happened?”

“He never wanted me. He always called me a mistake. My biological mom ran interference for me while she was alive, but she died of a drug overdose when I was four.”

All at once, the plant she’d been pulling released its hold. As she teetered backward, he grasped her arm in a steadying grip until she regained her balance.

“Thanks.” She tugged free of his hold and went back to work on the parched earth in front of her. “My father’s favorite punishment for any transgression or any deviation from the long list of rules he had was to lock me in the basement. There weren’t any windows down there, and the only light was controlled from the kitchen. He never t-turned it on.”

As she paused, he digested what she’d shared.

A four-year-old, locked in a dark basement alone, for who knew how long.

That was the stuff of enduring nightmares.

The temptation to pull her close ... hold her ... comfort her ... was strong, but her rigid posture sent a clear keep-your-distance message.

“Before he went to work every day, he locked me in the basement too, but he left a light on then.” Her voice became flat, devoid of all emotion. “Sometimes he forgot I was down there after he got home. If I banged on the door or called for him to let me out, he wouldn’t feed me until the next day.”

The anger churning in Marc’s stomach became harder to contain. “And no one knew about this? Or suspected?”

“Not for a long while. I was too young for school, and my father told neighbors he took me to daycare. When I was five, though, a new couple moved in next door. I don’t know what made the wife suspicious, but she started watching him leave in the morning for work. After days went by and she never saw me, she called social services. They investigated, and the rest is history.” She brushed a few flecks of dirt off her hand, but the residue stained her skin.

“What happened to your father?”

“His parental rights were revoked and he went to prison for nine years.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere hot, I hope.” A touch of bitterness crept into her tone. “He died five years ago.”

“You kept in touch with him?”

“No!” She jerked her head toward him, eyes blazing. “I never wanted to see him again after they took me away.”

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