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“Ah, ah,” I say before she closes the door behind her. “Take off her clothes before you go inside and leave them outside. And your socks.”
Her hand clutches the doorknob until her knuckles whiten. She most certainly doesn’t like me ordering her around. “Why?” she asks with poorly controlled anger.
“I don’t think you’ll be so prone to make an attempt through the window if you don’t have enough clothes.”
Her mouth opens and closes several times before she speaks. “Have you taken a look outside lately?” she hisses.
Rage rises, almost uncontrollably, inside me. Likethen… like two years ago. She’s so fucking good at getting to me. And I’m so fucking good at letting her. “I thought you’d be grateful for a bath and that I don’t make you takeyourclothes off in front of me!” I clench my teeth, fighting to subdue the pent-up anger from all our previous squabbles. “Just go back to your bedroom then, but leaveherwith me so I can get her some dinner.”
Kerry stands as if frozen in the same position. “No… sorry,” she whispers. She pulls off first one sock and then the other. “Please, let me take a bath… with Cece. Please.”
She has no fight left in her. Her huge dark eyes plead with me and her arms hang loosely by her sides, socks still clutched in her hand.
I look at her little feet. Pale, thin. How far could she walk on those? Far enough probably. As far as she’d need to. She appears so fragile, so easily breakable, but she’s made of solid rock. She fooled me once. It won’t happen again.
I feel just like she looks. I’m just as tired and my anger drains away almost as rapidly as it rose. “I’m so fed up with you fighting me every step of the way.” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat before I continue, “I know you don’t like me being here. But why the fuck can’t you just accept a friendly gesture? Even if it comes from me?”
She nods unhappily. “Sorry,” she says again. “Can I?”
I dismiss her with a tired wave of my hand. “Leave her pants and your socks outside and then take the time you need.”
“Thank you.”
I’m already on my way to the kitchen and stop flat. I can’t believe my ears. ‘Thank you?’
Twenty-Seven
Kerry
Ilock the door with a shaky sigh of relief. It’s the first time I get some time alone in way too many hours. I fall into a trembling heap on the soft white rug, hugging Cecilia, groaning when I accidentally twist my ankle. It’s blue and swollen. It looks terrible. She squirms out of my grip and tries to reach the door handle while talking and talking, words only she knows the meaning of. And I don’t have the energy to listen.
My eyes are dry and heated. I have cried too much. It’s useless. Now I need to think about how to get us out of here. I need to make some real plans. He keeps threatening me with wanting to ‘talk’. I really can’t think of anything he could talk about that would mean anything to me. There’s the one thing that burns in the vacuum between us whenever we get close. His hands around my throat. Death in his eyes. My heart shattering into a million pieces from his betrayal.
I am not talking about that. It would be like reliving it. I don’t ever want him to understand how thoroughly he broke me, how pathetic I was to have fallen for him so quick, for this stranger who only toyed with me.
Cece is fresh, I bathed her earlier today. I give her the yellow duck, the soap crayons and her collection of colorful rubber fishes. She plays on the carpet, humming some song she’s inventing as she sings it, while I run a steaming hot bath for me. Undressing slowly, discarding one dirty, smelly piece of clothing after another I feel like I literally peel off the last day and night. I shudder when I see the blood that has dried on both my sleeves and how bruised my wrists are. I realize it’shisblood, from when he tied me up with the bloodied sheet, and throw the shirt away with a shudder.
Cece looks up as she hears my whimper and I force a smile toward her.When did I start lying to my daughter?
I turn the knobs and the water stops running.He is twisting my mind. That’s what it is.
The hot steam has already made the walls and the window dripping wet. I put first one foot and then the other into the tub. I hope it’s hot enough. AndGodis it hot! I push myself deeper, gasping, trembling, panting like when I gave birth; short, labored breaths, my cheeks already flushing from the lava-like heat.Did I put any cold water in the mix at all?Finally, I’m completely covered and my heart races from the effort. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. I almost twitch when I realize I haven’t thought of Christian for several minutes. I open one eye and glance at the door.
It’s closed.
He’s out there.
Christian Russo is a few feet away on the other side of a thin piece of wood.
Cecilia is an angel. She’s playing quietly, painting the duck—and the white carpet—in all the colors of the rainbow.
I close my eyes again and let the warmth soothe my aching limbs, soften stiff muscles and penetrate deep into my core. My hands slide along my slippery skin, barely touching nipples stiff from the pain of the heat, past my belly that’s more of an indentation than the soft roundness it used to be when I carried Cece. I stop when my hands cover the patch of hair, then I let my arms float weightlessly in the water.
My mind swirls. With tiredness. From the heat. From his presence.
I sit up on the edge of the tub and lather myself thoroughly. My wrists are not only discolored but actually chafed bloody from when I fought to get loose. I had no idea I struggled that hard. My left ankle is swollen, there are black and blue marks on the side of my rib cage and on my belly. I touch my neck. At least it’s unharmed this time around.
For now.
