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He fixes his cufflinks as he tries to regain his composure. Wouldn’t want to seem rattled in front of a former student. It almost amuses me, in a detached kind of way.
Many years have passed since I’ve seen him. They have not been kind to him. His hair is more salt than pepper and thinning to reveal the top of his head. His face is lined with more wrinkles and his eyes are sunken in, even his middle is much softer. Rounder. His eyes and skin have a yellowish hue that indicates how hard he’s been hitting the bottle over the years. He doesn’t hold the same authority he did in the past.
I see him so differently now that I know his true colors, but it’s more than that. He’s no longer a strong and fit adult that commanded respect. He’s nothing more than a weakling with no spine and even fewer morals.
“Bourbon would be great,” he responds.
I move to my father’s bar and pour him a generous amount.
“Incoming.” I hear the warning from Scar at the same time my phone beeps with security. Schroder must be here. I grab two more glasses and fill both up with a generous pour. If memory serves me right, I believe this is Schroder’s drink of choice as well.
He walks into the office just as I pass one of the glasses to Dean Bernard. His appearance doesn’t surprise me in the same way. I’ve seen him as recently as at the gala where I first found Scar. She was so close to them, just out of their grasp and none of them even realized it. Thank god for small favors.
“My father will be here soon,” I explain once more. “Drink?” I offer even as I’m already handing the glass over. He looks more haggard than usual, but not nearly as unhealthy as Bernard does.
“You were the one who found her?” Schroder asks as he takes the drink and a seat.
I nod, tapping my fingers against the desk as my nerves grow. These two were never really a threat to the plan being derailed. So far so good, but I can’t help but feel anxiety crawling up my spine. My father is the wild card.
“Stumbled upon her while I was on some business. She’s in a small beach town in Northern California. Secluded house up in the cliffs.” I lift my drink to my mouth but barely let any pass my lips. I’ll need every bit of my wits about me for when my father arrives. He’s going to be angry with their presence. He’ll be even angrier that I didn’t give him a warning about calling them here. He would have never passed along her whereabouts to them. They would continue to live in the dark, wondering if she was truly gone or if she may come back one day to haunt them. They would have never known about the house in the heart of the suburbs just forty-five minutes away from here that would have become her personal hell if she really was the helpless damsel we painted her out to be.
“What are our next steps?” Schroder leans forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his legs as he crosses his hands to lean his chin against. He’s calm, in control. The opposite of the Dean, who’s beginning to turn a little green.
I shrug. “My father will decide. I just brought the information.” I lift the file to indicate the truth of my words. My phone beeps once more and Scar’s voice fills the line, darker and heavier than the last time I heard her. “He’s here.” There’s an edge of sadistic excitement I can hear now. My lips twitch, but I force myself not to smile. It’s too early to smile.
“That should be him now,” I say aloud, checking my phone and nodding.
Schroder brushes imaginary lint from his shoulder. He clears his throat, feigning an air of indifference that isn’t fooling anyone. He wants to see her. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to the file.
I shrug as I hand over the file Noah curated on the fake Scar. It’ll send my father over the edge, but there’s really no avoiding that at this point anyway.
Even from the office, we can hear the front door slam shut followed by pounding footsteps. My father forcibly throws open the office door. “Let me see,” he demands, a wild look in his eyes. His hair is disheveled, so unlike how he normally looks. His cheeks are ruddy with exertion and excitement and his breathing is heavy.
It only takes a moment for him to realize we aren’t alone. His expression falls and a hard glint enters his gaze, malice radiates from him in waves as he notes the file in Schroder’s hands.
“Why the hell are they here?” he demands in a booming voice. A familiar yell that sends chills down my spine. I keep my feet planted but a childlike fear begins in my gut.
My voice is unsteady, but firm as I answer, “It’s a problem that concerns all of you.”
He’s in front of me before I can even blink, the back of his hand slamming into my cheek hard enough to snap my head to the side.
I’m six again, the first time he ever hit me. A backhand across the cheek for talking back when he said Charlotte and I shouldn't be playing tag. I was supposed to be keeping her safe. Pristine. Helping her learn how to be the perfect wife. I didn’t know what it meant. But my whole face ached for a week.
His spit flies in my face as he roars his displeasure at my making decisions without him. The other two men in the room freeze at his unseemly anger. “What is so hard about keeping your mouth shut?” he growls in my face as he forces me to my knees.
I’m twelve again, on my knees in my front of my father as he undoes his belt. I know the bite of the leather will sting and burn for days after he lashes my back. I also know it will be worse if I even think about making a sound. Tears will bring out his favorite knife.
“Charles,” Scar whispers down the line, tears in her voice. “We’re here. Say the word and we’re coming in.”
No, not yet. I push through the overwhelming memories of childhood abuse. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted my own blood on my tongue. But a little pain is easy to push through. I’ll just borrow a little of Scar’s strength.
“I apologize,” I tell him what he wants to hear. What he expects. His foot hits me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me, but only a small grunt of pain is released. Still too much by my father’s standards. To my surprise, he doesn't pull his blade on me.
I’m seventeen, a week before they tortured Charlotte. My father’s sadistic side was no longer a surprise to me, but the evidence of his depravity was new as he laid photo after photo in front of me. The cold metal of a gun pressed against my temple as tears streamed down my face. Blood coated my tongue and my teeth dug into my bottom lip to keep the sounds of my fear from escaping. My father was testing me, and I knew instinctively I wouldn’t survive if I failed.
“Maybe this is better,” he mutters to himself, drawing me out of my horror-filled past. “I always hated that they touched her.” The words are said under his breath, not even really a whisper. Neither man seems to have heard him. They wouldn’t be sitting so still if they had.
My father pulls a gun out from his desk and points it at me, out of the view from the two others. This is not what I expected. I don’t think we have a plan for this. Real fear makes my heart race, not only for myself, but mostly for Scar. If she rushes in here, she will make an easy target for him. He won’t even hesitate to pull the trigger on an intruder. There’s no way he would even recognize her.
