Chapter Thirty One
Veronica
Aknock at the door interrupts us, pulling us out of our bubble and slamming us back to a reality too painful for me to bear.
“Ms. Vargas, it’s Agent Blake with the FBI,” a woman’s voice calls out from behind the closed door.
My stomach churns, my mouth instantly dries.
My body tingles with anxiety at the mention of her name.
Another reminder of what I went through.
Another round of questions, I’m sure. My mind goes instantly to a worst-case scenario, as if I just didn’t experience and survive one.
It conjures up even worse ones. I swallow over and over, trying to moisten my mouth as I hurry to dress myself with the soft two-piece flannel pajamas that either Max or Mom packed for me to have, when another knock startles me, making me squeak out, “Coming.”
I glance over at Iz, who hurries to get dressed in the same white shirt and grey sweats he appeared in before.
I step out of the bathroom and take a seat on the bed, waiting for Iz to join me before allowing the agent inside the hospital room.
Two women enter—one dressed in a grey suit with a perfect ponytail and an elegant stature, and the other with purple hair, jeans, pink Crocs, a pink sweater, freckles, and funky glasses that remind me of Rayna.
“Hi, I’m Elle, and I’m a victims’ advocate,” she introduces herself with a warm smile. “I just wanted to stop by and make myself available if needed. But I’m sure the agent has questions to ask.”
She looks over at Iz, who sits in a recliner with his right eyebrow raised and his hand covering his mouth as he rests his arm on his knee.
The agent, whose name tag reads “Blake,” stands up straight from where she had been leaning against the doorframe.
She gives us a curt nod, her piercing gaze flicking between Iz and me.
“I'm sure you have seen plenty of us, but I wanted to come by and formally introduce myself as the agent in charge of the case. I wanted to personally inform you that we found two more bodies, and while it might not pertain to you two, I think it’s better to be informed personally than to find out the news. Secondly, Priscilla is still alive, and she will be formally charged with kidnapping and a list of other crimes that are yet to be disclosed. Given that you two were the only couple to come out alive from that basement, we need to get every detail we can.”
I feel my blood freeze at the mention of more bodies.
A sickening feeling churns in the pit of my stomach, making me shudder involuntarily as memories of the dank basement flood back.
Blake pauses, her gaze shifting directly onto Iz, before opening a small notebook and retrieving a sleek pen from the pocket of her suit jacket.
“How about we start with how you ended up in that basement?” she asks, her eyes sharp and pointedly focused.
Iz glances at me before he replies, his voice low and raspy as he begins to fill her in on the details.
While I recall all the events from that night, everything was so normal until it wasn’t.
How it felt to see him hurt. How it felt the first time Harry raped me.
Only leaving out how that night we almost gave in to our hunger for each other.
Guilt gnaws at me, eating away my insides until there’s nothing left but despair.
Tears stream down my face before I have a chance to stop them, my hands wipe away furiously, but they are no match for the speed of them.
Agent Blake gives me a sympathetic look but remains silent, allowing Iz to tell our story.
Iz’s voice trembles with suppressed emotion as he continues to share the details of those horrific experiences.
Subjected to an endless cycle of terror for days on end.
“What about Priscilla?” she asks. Iz opens and closes his hands as he recalls how she forced him to have sex with her, about the things we were forced to do.
Blake’s harsh features soften perceptibly at the graphic recounting.
The pen in her hand stills, suspended in mid-air as she listens intently to the horrors we were forced to endure.
I hide my face behind my hands, not daring to look at her reaction.
Iz soldiers on, his voice growing hoarse.
“And how exactly did you escape?” she inquires, her voice betraying no emotion, though her knuckles are white as she grips her pen.
Iz glances at me again.
I don’t look, but I can feel his gaze on me as he speaks.
He recalls how Harry was about to rape me after feeding me cheese, and dropped a knife.
What I did. How he manipulated Priscilla into releasing him, the desperation that had fueled his actions.
With every word Iz speaks, I feel my mind being dragged back into the hell we’d narrowly escaped, into the echoes of pain, humiliation, and fear.
Each syllable summons a new wave of goosebumps on my flesh as I'm forced to relive those nightmarish moments over and over. I’ve grown sick of the questions. The answer is always the same.
She sighs before clicking the pen twice and closing her notepad.
“This is enough for now. Priscilla more than likely won’t cooperate, but we'll try to talk to her once she’s more alert.
We might be able to get more information and closure for the families.
I appreciate your cooperation. I understand this is painful for both of you,” she says.
My hands feel sweaty and clammy, my heart fluttering in my chest. Before I can stop my words, they come out.
“They wanted babies. I’m pregnant, but that was it. They raped us for a child.” I sob.
Blake pales at my admission. She looks stricken, her breath hitching in her chest, and for the first time, I see something akin to horror cross her features. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammers, and words pour from my lips.
“We were raped over and over until I got pregnant, and even then, he didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop… he was never going to stop,” I continue to sob into my hands as I recall the events.
Blake’s eyes widened, her expression grave.
Her voice is a whisper when she finally speaks again.
“I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through,” she says.
“All I can promise is that we are doing everything we can to deliver justice not only to you but to others.”
She gives us a nod before she stands up, and as she creaks open the door, her silhouette seems to stretch and darken.
When she is gone, the room is shrouded in an uncomfortable silence.
Iz reaches out, his fingers grazing my arm gently in an attempt to console me.
I flinch away instinctively before realizing I’m flinching from my lifeline, the only shred of normalcy I can cling to in this hellish whirlpool of past horrors.
“It’s okay,” he says softly, retreating his hand but remaining nearby, a comforting presence in the heavy silence. “We’re not there anymore.”
He’s right, we are free.
Harry is dead, and Priscilla will spend the rest of her life locked away.
There is no more basement, no more chains, no more Harry.
Yet the ghost of his touch seems to linger, a nauseating memory that sends shivers crawling up my spine.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together as I feel my world slip between my fingers.
I let my body fall onto the bed with my head on the pillow and break down.
Iz watches as I fall apart, torn between a desire to offer comfort and a fear of causing further distress.
He moves to the edge of the room, his own pain etched deep in the lines of his face.
His eyes are a hazy mix of pain and compassion, unable to bear witness to my agony but reluctant to turn away.
I can feel his intense gaze as I try to stifle my sobs, pulling the thin sheets closer around me as if they can shield me from the cold emptiness that just won’t leave.