Page 42 of Wicked Nightmare

"Always," I promised.

The moment shattered as Lakey's eyes widened, fixating on something behind me. "Cam," she breathed, her voice a mixture of horror and fascination. "Look."

I turned, following her gaze to a dusty filing cabinet tucked in the corner. Its top drawer was slightly ajar, a yellowed folder peeking out.

"Well, well, well. What nasty little secrets are you hiding?"

I yanked the drawer open, the metal screeching in protest. Inside was a treasure trove of depravity – files upon files, each labeled with a name and a number in the right-hand corner. My stomach churned as I recognized some of them from the jars in the other room.

"Jackpot," I muttered, pulling out a handful and spreading them on the desk.

Lakey was at my side in an instant, her fingers tracing the names. "It's all here," she whispered. "Everything they did to us. Every sick, twisted experiment."

I flipped open the nearest file, my eyes skimming over clinical descriptions of torture that made even my hardened heart skip a beat. "Jesus, fuck," I breathed.

Female circumcision. No anesthetic. Deceased. Hysterectomy. No anesthetic. Deceased.

Her laugh was brittle, bordering on hysterical. "What's the matter, big guy? Too much for even you to handle?"

I met her gaze, seeing the challenge there. "Naw, just trying to find your file." Truth was, this is fucking grotesque, but I had to save my inner crusader for the right time.

She scanned the files. “I don’t see it here.” With a sigh she opened another folder. “I don’t see Lydia’s either, but I guess they tried to perform an abortion on Margot. No anesthetic, of course. Seems to be their favorite way of inflicting pain. Guess who was the beaming daddy?”

“Father Christopher, of course.” I looked over the office with a more critical eye. If he had felt any which way about Lakey, or noticed how special she was, like most of our foster fathers had, he’d have put her file somewhere where no one would find it.

I had a sneaking suspicion about what they’d done to her, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to find out. Her dreams of being a mother would shatter, and I might not be able to hold all the pieces together.

The devastation might just destroy her.

“Oh my God, Cam! Look!” she pointed excitedly at a nondescript box. Opening it, a small silver key lay inside.

Of course she would find it. Of course she would.

“Well? Where do you think its other half is?” She went on a frenzy searching for where the key might fit.

A silver security box caught my eye under a stack of paper in the shredder. “Probably in here.” I reached down to grab it, setting it on the table in front of us. “Babe… once you open this… if your file is in here, there’s no going back. Do you understand that? Whatever is in here, this is the truth of what happened to you. Do… are you sure you want to know?”

She looked pensive for a moment.

“Yes.” Taking a deep breath, she held the key towards the lock on the box. “Yes, I want to know.”

Chapter Fourteen: Lakey

My fingers shook as I reached into that fucking security box. Heart hammering, I grabbed two envelopes, my eyes zeroing in on the one with "Lydia Hamilton" scrawled across it.

Hamilton. I'd never known her last name. Years of sharing a room, sharing bread, sharing nightmares, and I'd never known her last name. The nuns didn't use last names. We were just first names and bed numbers. Lydia, Bed 2. Lakey, Bed 1.

"Shit," I muttered, glancing at Cam. His face was stone, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. He gave me a curt nod.

I tore into Lydia's envelope, memories of her flooding my brain. Her laugh, her stupid jokes, the way she'd given me her last piece of bread when they'd had us on a 'starvation cleanse for our sins'. The way she counted in the dark to fall asleep. The way she never cried, not once, not even when she should have.

Those thoughts evaporated the second I saw that first photo.

Lydia. My friend. The one who held me as I screamed in the night. Sprawled out, skin pale as milk. A jagged, angry scar ripped across her belly in an upside-down T, held together by crude stitches. I traced it with my finger, bile rising in my throat. Red, angry welts criss-crossed over her breasts. Her wrists held deep purple bruises from restraints.

But her face was finally at peace.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I choked out, my vision blurring. "They butchered her, Cam. Like a goddamn pig."