33. Ransom
33
RANSOM
W e’ve found a piece of the puzzle.
Or a piece of the piece.
Once we’re sure the damn desk isn’t gonna try to kill us again, Everett pulls out an old, leather-bound book.
He hands the book over to Claire. She sits on the floor and thumbs through the pages. Her cheeks are soft and pink, and her eyebrows furrow intensely.
“It’s a breeding record book,” she says. “But the prices are…well. Astronomical. Even our best studs don’t go this high. And they don’t have names. Only initials.”
I look over Claire’s shoulder, trying to help her make sense of it. “These don’t sound like any of the horses we’ve got in the stables. You think he was selling on the side?”
“Or he wasn’t selling horses ,” Everett juts in quietly.
It takes me a second to realize Claire has gone very still and very quiet. She’s stopped at a page, and she’s staring down at it.
“What? Did you find something?”
“He wasn’t selling horses.” Claire repeats. Her voice is so quiet it’s like a whisper. She puts her finger on one of the dates. “Purebred mare. 6.5 pounds. Good health. Sold for two million on June 14th, 1995.” When her eyes lift from the page and meet mine, they’re blank, big as owl eyes. “My birthday. It was me. The day I was born, he sold me.”
Everett moves behind Claire, looking over her shoulder. His eyebrows furrow. “And now they’ve come to collect.”
The air goes still.
The silence only breaks when Claire snaps the book shut. She goes skittering out of the room, stumbling over her boots. She’s half crawling, half stumbling when I chase after her. I watch as she shoves through the bathroom door and barely makes it to the toilet.
I can’t fix this.
I can’t make her old man a good person.
I can’t help her wrap her head around the fact that she was sold off like an animal.
I can’t tell her any of this is going to be okay.
But I can kneel on the floor behind her, pull her soft strands of hair over her shoulders, and weave it back while she pukes.
She’s got nothing on her stomach, but her body heaves anyway. I get up only to wet a hand towel and hand it off. She pats her face dry, flushes the toilet, and leans back into me. She’s caved over, and her little body is trembling.
“How could he do this?” she asks.
I pet her back. “He made a mistake. He made a…damn awful mistake. One he must’ve regretted because he hired Everett to look after you. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t trying to protect you.”
She tilts her chin to look up at me. Those eyes are gentle and watery. My Claire—full of teeth and iron—is caught without her armor. I wanna tuck her away inside of me and keep her safe. “Why the hell do you defend him?” she asks.
I shake my head. “He was a rotten, mean old pain in the ass. He made my life a living hell—and he enjoyed it, too. After how he treated you…well. He deserved anything he had coming to him. I ain’t defending him. Just trying to make sense of it.”
“There’s no sense.” Her hand touches her mouth. “Nothing makes sense.”
Her body trembles. It’s those quiet, hiccupping sobs. I hold her, and she curls tighter into me. Her fingers twist in my shirt, clutching.
“I hate him,” she cries. I can feel the wet through my shirt, against my chest. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him .”
But I know she means the other thing.
Hate doesn’t hurt like this.
“I’m here,” I tell her. I kiss her forehead, the damp sweat that’s collected there. I pet her back and inhale the scent of her hair. “I’m here.”