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“You’re a good actress,” he says with flaring nostrils. “A perfect liar and a cunning little cheat.”
When he lets me go, I sink to my heels.
Taking a step back, he pulls his belt from the loops of his waistband. I know what’s coming before he swings the leather strap through the air and cracks it next to me on the floor.
“Say it,” he yells. “You will admit your lies on your knees and beg for my forgiveness while you kiss my feet or I swear I’ll beat it out of you.”
I lick my dry lips, shaking not only with fear but also from the cold. His life mission and carefully crafted revenge has been ruined. All I can offer is, “I’m sorry.”
He utters another cry before bringing down the belt again, this time closer to my body. He’s shaking, but not with cold. His anger is burning him up from the inside out.
“Fuck,” he says, dragging his hand over his head.
He walks in a circle around the cell, clenching and unclenching one hand while clutching the belt in the other.
Gnashing his teeth, he spares me a last look before stalking from the cell, slamming the gate, and clicking the lock in place. A moment later, the sound of a key scraping in a lock sounds. Metal slams against stone.
“Get the fuck out,” Roman says, his voice not sounding like his own.
Footsteps fall on the floor. He’s letting the men go. He’s keeping his promise.
“You, too.”
“No.” Number Two speaks. “If she stays, so do I.”
“Suit yourself,” Roman says.
His bare feet is quiet on the floor. Only the banging of the metal door upstairs announces his exit.
My strength gives out. I sit down flat on my ass, hugging my knees to my chest. It’s so cold it hurts. The dampness doesn’t help. It coats my skin and soaks the shirt I’m wearing. Within seconds, the fabric is as stiff as cardboard. My breath makes white puffs in front of my mouth. The icy floor needles my skin. After another second, my teeth start to chatter.
“Get up and move around,” Number Two says.
I’m shaking so hard it’s difficult to get my legs to cooperate. Rubbing my arms, I walk in a circle, but moving hurts. It’s not just my feet. It’s a bone-deep ache, maybe a lack of blood flow.
“Y–you should’ve gone w–when you had the chance,” I say.
“You made a deal, didn’t you? That’s why he let us go.”
“H–he knows. I–it’s over.”
“Move around.”
“C–can’t. I’m s–so cold.”
“I know,” he says with compassion. “I’m holding my jacket through the bars. Do you see it?”
Just turning my head is a huge effort. “N–no.”
“I’ll try to throw it.”
“N–no.” I hug myself tighter. “I–if it falls t–too far away…” I can’t even finish the sentence. I’m too cold to speak. “I–it hurts.” I never thought cold could hurt like this.
“I know.”
Leaning against the wall, I rest my weight on my heels. The frozen floor burns my feet. It feels as if they may fall off.
“The name is Tom,” he says.
Tom. I let that settle. I never took him for a Tom. “C–Christina.”
“Christina,” he echoes. “It’s a pretty name.”
“T–thanks,” I say, resting my head against the wall and closing my eyes.
I’m not thanking him for telling me I have a pretty name. I’m saying thank you for giving me something, for giving me a name so I don’t have to do this alone.
“You’re welcome.”
It hurts so bad. So bad.
“Christina?”
“I–it hurts.”
“Close your eyes. Think of a warm place, a place with lots of sun.”
“T–the beach.”
“That’s good. Yeah. The beach. Feel the rays of the sun on your skin, how it warms you from the inside.”
I open my eyes. We went to the beach once when I was little. We rented a caravan. It was parked on a lawn that gave way to the sand. It was before Eden was born. The air was sticky, always smelling of salt. My dad carried me on his shoulders to the rock pools. I looked for shells while he fished. He gutted and cleaned the fish before grilling it on the fire right there on the beach.
“Come here, Chrissy. Here. Go rinse the bowl in the shallow water. Don’t climb on the rocks. The tide is coming in.”
His face is younger, and his skin has a healthy bronze glow.
“T–the water is c–cold.”
“You’ll get used to it, Chrissy. You’re a brave girl.”
“Christina? Christina, talk to me. Don’t stop talking.”
“D–daddy?” I grin. A copper taste fills my mouth. Why did I bite my tongue?
What day is it?
Monday, Roman says.
“Christina!”
“Chrissy.”
You came, Daddy.
“It’s not a good day to die, Chrissy.”
“Christina, talk to me, damn you. Stay with me. Don’t fall asleep.”
Finally, it stops. I don’t feel the pain. The water isn’t cold, any longer. It’s dark and warm and welcoming. I walk in deeper, letting the tide take me. Take away the memories. I drift on my back, keeping my eyes open. The sky is a brilliant black.
