59. Zara
ZARA
The next day, I still have no idea how to escape this fortress before I’m forced to do what no little girl dreams of doing one day.
I stiffly move from one yoga pose to the next, silently cursing the lack of a yoga mat on the bedroom floor. Cursing I have to practice yoga without ibuprofen or clothes better suited for the activity. The boy shorts keep riding up my ass.
Yoga hasn’t been enough to control the warfare battling in my body. It’s just something to distract me. Distract me from curling up in a ball, from sobbing uncontrollably.
And maybe, just maybe, the increased blood flow to my brain will stimulate an idea for getting out of this place.
Peony is asleep in her playpen, worn out from playing with me and Tilly earlier this afternoon, worn out from her most recent bout of tears.
I shift into warrior pose, breathing through the stiffness and pain.
I am strong. I feel no pain. I am a warrior. I am Peony’s warrior.
Breathe.
During the past twenty-four hours, I’ve learned that Rosaline really was Kenda, based on the description the other girls gave me of her.
And I’ve discovered there are six girls in this house, ranging from eighteen to twenty-six years old.
All were coerced, in one way or another, to be part of the sex trafficking ring.
Two of the girls believe they made the choice to be here.
They haven’t figured out yet the only person benefitting from the arrangement is the man who calls himself The Bear.
The money he gives them doesn’t come close to a fraction of minimum wage.
The pretty clothes, the fake nails and lashes, the blowouts—none of it is worth what these girls are forced to endure.
Queen E limps into the bedroom, the bruises on her face still dark from when a john beat her two days ago. According to Tilly, it was on the menu. Like numerous other horrendous acts I’m sure none of the girls in this house are willing participants for.
She smiles at me, but there’s only sadness in her eyes. “Your hair looks good.”
I was taken to a salon this morning for my “makeover,” and she had insisted on a blowout for me.
I couldn’t even tell anyone there I needed help, to plead for them to call 9-1-1.
My “boyfriend” was standing by my side the entire time.
From the nervous glances the stylists kept giving him, I could tell they knew he wasn’t really my boyfriend.
I also sensed they wouldn’t be willing to risk their safety to help me.
I’ve never felt so alone before.
Are Peony’s and my photos on the news yet? Maybe. But even if they are, with the thousands of people reported missing, would we be nothing more than a blip on the radar?
Peony might be more than a blip because she’s the daughter of a popular thriller author. That’s bound to have led to national news coverage of her disappearance, right?
I cautiously move out of warrior pose, my body uncooperative. I wobble slightly, then regain my balance—a feat in itself with the fog occupying my brain.
Candi storms into the room I share with Tilly. Her face is red, her fake-lash-rimmed eyes narrowed, her ire aimed solely at Queen E. “Where the fuck is my brush, bitch? I know you have it.”
Queen E scowls as much as she can with a bruised and swollen face. “ I don’t know where the fuck your brush is. I didn’t use it.”
There’s no point in telling Candi to save her energy for the real enemy.
She hasn’t realized The Bear—and not the rest of the girls in the house—is the bad guy.
She sees him as her savior after she ran away from her abusive father.
In her mind, if not for The Bear, she would be living on the street instead of in this large house.
Candi’s eyes narrow some more at Queen E, and she turns to me. “Lola and The Bear are waiting for you downstairs.”
“Why are they waiting for me?” A shakiness that wasn’t there a moment ago sneaks into my voice. The last time the bottom bitch was waiting for me, I ended up with a nasty bruise on my jaw and another warning of what would happen to Peony if I didn’t cooperate.
All because my body is slowing down on me, and I didn’t move as fast as Lola wanted.
“I think I heard something ’bout you being branded.”
At Candi’s final word, fear and panic slam the brakes on my heart, and my breath skids to a standstill. My heart restarts, beating faster, harder, louder than its new normal. The new normal it’s been reset to ever since the man-wolf stepped into Garrett’s house.
Candi shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like I’m getting my teeth cleaned at the dentist. “And you’re supposed to bring the baby with you.” She waves half-heartedly toward Peony’s playpen.
I bite back the urge to say, “Like hell I am.” Candi doesn’t care if I take Peony down or not. It’s what will happen to Peony if I’m not here to watch over her that keeps me from voicing the thought out loud.
Not every girl in this house cares what happens to Peony. Not every girl in this house has mothering instincts like Athena and Tilly.
Taking her downstairs isn’t my favorite option either. But I haven’t been given a choice, so I lean over the side of the playpen, where Peony’s still sleeping, and stroke her face. “Hey, Princess Peony. Time to wake up.” We have to visit the ugly troll and his she-witch.
Peony sleepily blinks her eyes open, then scrambles up to her sleeper-covered feet. Her small fingers curl over the top of the playpen, steadying her. “Zawa.”
She used to smile at me whenever she said my name. Now, her bottom lip just trembles. Any joy she might have once had has been sucked drier than the desert.
I promise you, you will get to see your daddy again. Someday soon.
If Kenda and Athena found a way to escape, so can I. The Bear doesn’t want to risk a repeat of that with any of the girls here, so it might take longer than I’d hoped. He’s recently imposed extra security at the house.
But I swear on Mimi’s grave, Peony and I will escape.
She’ll have the chance to live the life she deserves.
A life filled with happiness and love.
I will away the fresh round of tears clouding my vision, pick her up, and carry her downstairs. It feels like I’m carrying a school bus on my shoulders, and with each step, I sink farther into the carpet.
But if the plan is to brand me…well, that hardly makes me want to rush.
I shuffle-walk into the living room that permanently smells like stale cigarette smoke and beer and something else I’d rather not identify.
The large-screen TV on the wall, from the sounds of it during the past three days, is only for watching sports.
And facing it, like we’re in an upscale sports bar, are the leather couch and half a dozen leather armchairs.
Each probably costs more than the income that any of the girls in this house make in a year.
It’s late afternoon, but the curtains are closed. The only light in the room comes from the floor lamps positioned throughout the space.
I search from where I’m standing for something that could double as a weapon.
Search for something that could aid in Peony’s and my escape.
A sharp-looking knife—a hunting knife, possibly—lies on the dining-room table, but The Bear is looming next to it.
He’ll be armed before I get close to the weapon.
The knife isn’t the only thing on the table. A candle stands next to it, the flame dancing ominously.
“For God’s sake,” Lola grumbles. “You weren’t told to be slow.” Her gaze shifts to Peony, and her eyes frost with pure loathing. “Maybe we should punish the baby for your indolence.”
I drop my gaze to the floor. Being submissive is against my nature, but it’s better to be submissive than anger the she-witch. “Sorry, I moved as fast as I can.”
“Why the hell did you have to be disabled?” she mutters. “No one has time to wait for you.”
I don’t argue the disabled comment. I’d rather she believes that’s the reason I’m slow than to know the truth and shoot me up with whatever several of the girls are strung out on.
“Put her on the couch.” Lola’s tone is sharper than the knife on the table.
My chin lifted just a fraction, I walk to the couch, my arms quaking from the effort of carrying Peony downstairs.
Grab the knife and get out of here. Stab those assholes if you have to.
If only it were that easy.
I bend at the waist to put Peony down on the couch, my body still trembling. The trembling has less to do with the spondyloarthritis than it does about what’s going to happen.
Peony clings to me, her eyes as round as saucers. “Nooooooooo.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper on her temple, tears stinging my eyes at the lie I’m trying to convince us both of. “This will be over before either of us realizes it. I just need to put you on the couch for a few minutes. That’s all. I promise.”
Her hold on me loosens just enough for me to put her on the couch, but she’s still screaming, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She’s barely out of my arms before Lola snatches hold of my wrist and drags me to where The Bear is standing, heating the knife blade in the flame.
The reality of what they’re planning to do sinks in, lighting a match to horror and terror. The emotions sizzle and burn like an out-of-control fire, destroying the last ray of hope I had clung to.
My eyes widen. “NoNoNoNoNo.” I struggle and scream, yanking at Lola’s harsh grasp, and try to push her away with my other hand. “Please don’t.”
The bulky man-wolf grabs my arm. I frantically slap at his face, his arms, his chest—anything and everything my palm can make contact with. But nothing seems to faze him .
Peony continues screaming, her high-pitched voice growing hoarse.
He shoves me onto the chair and catches hold of my arms. Using his body weight, he pins them to the armrests. Undeterred, I wiggle and squirm and kick out. I beg, I plead, I shout obscenities. I fight for my life, for the right to have a say in what happens to my body.
But his stone grip doesn’t loosen.
“Sit still, or we’ll brand the baby too.” The cold hostility in Lola’s voice flicks a switch inside me, and I stop moving, the fight ripped from me.
Please don’t touch her.
I try to say the words out loud, but my voice fails me, the lining of my throat burning.
The lingering fog in the periphery slips in and clouds my brain, and I brace for what will no doubt be the worst pain of my life.
Music clicks on. Some sort of country song I vaguely recognize. One I hope to never hear again. The volume is cranked up, not to the point of deafening, but loud enough to mask any noise I might make from being heard outside.
I close my eyes, unable to look at Peony, unable to take the fear in her eyes. She’s screaming and crying, but I don’t have strength left in me to tell her I’m okay. The lie forms a knot in my throat, preventing the words from escaping.
A sharp, scalding pain cuts into my skin, again and again and again. The faint acrid smell of burning flesh taunts me.
Through the fog, I hear my never-ending screams, my throat burning more intensely with each one.
A loud knock echoes from the front door. It’s nothing more than my imagination. A delusion. Brought on by the pain.
I keep screaming…wishing, praying, pleading to who-knows-what that the knocking isn’t just in my head. That someone has finally found us. That after everything we’ve been through, we get to go home.
Yelling and a bang that seems to vibrate through the house follows the knocking. But the stinging cut of the knife and the burning has stopped. That’s all I care about.
Dazed, I open my eyes. Three angry, two-inch lacerations form a pattern above my right breast. Blood spills down my body, staining my thin, white tank top.
Men and women in FBI vests stream into the room, guns drawn. The music is turned off. Words are yelled, and heavy footsteps thunder up the stairs. Crying and screaming and cussing from the second floor follow a moment later.
The selling of sex is illegal in the U.S. These girls are all victims, coerced to sell their bodies, but the law doesn’t see it that way. In the eyes of the law, it’s not just the pimps who are criminals—these women are too.
Which means, if law enforcement believes I’ve traded sex for money, I’ll also be branded a criminal. I could be facing time in prison.
None of that matters for now though.
Pushing past the numbness, I propel my aching, bleeding body to the couch. Peony is the only thing that’s important.
I gather her in my arms. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going home to your daddy.”
She wails into the side of my chest not dripping blood. I kiss the top of her head. “You’re going home to your daddy.”
An FBI agent approaches us. And I keep whispering the words into Peony’s hair, a new, denser fog spreading through my brain.