4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Ace
I manage to hit a rhythm as the house begins to settle.
Most of the survivors still here are ones who want to stay a while, the others having left as quickly as they could. It’s not a mystery why. None of them want to be anywhere near Travis or Jake. We can't blame them for that, even if it's frustrating to watch so many leave without letting us help.
There’s a reason undercover operatives never stay at the same safehouse as their victims. They still do recovery, something even Kellan agrees the operatives need in order to process and move on, but they do it in a different safehouse with strangers.
Survivors aren’t supposed to have to coexist with their abusers, regardless of how good the abusers’ intentions were.
They definitely shouldn’t have to witness a fucking Shakespearean tragedy while trying to do it, either, which is exactly what the Travis-Carter-Maison situation is quickly becoming.
The plan was obviously for Travis and Jake to work their mandatory recovery in a safehouse out in Pennsylvania, alongside two operatives who have years of experience and a group of survivors who would have no idea Travis and Jake had ever been masters.
Carter changed that plan when he came along, of course. Well, more accurately, Carter changed the plan when he fell for Travis. Or when Travis fell for him. Or maybe when he asked us to save his friend Casey. Or maybe when Jake and Casey got attached to each other.
The exact moment doesn’t really matter. What matters is that the protocol changed. Promises were made. Promises to stick together. Promises to work things out.
So here they all are. One big dysfunctional family, with Maison and Travis already playing tug-of-war over Carter while Carter plays tug-of-war with himself.
There may only be a few survivors remaining, but the ones who stayed are slowly starting to settle into things.
They're at least trying to, which is a big step on its own.
For my part, I’ve organized all of the files, sent in reports, triple-checked each list, and even had time to take a few power naps.
I’ve been productive amid chaos and horrors.
I’ve made quick decisions and haven’t lost a single person - survivor or operative.
I’ve started filling my corkboards, using the pre-captivity photos Travis had placed in his files whenever he was able to track down identities himself.
I'm keeping a tight hold on everything, my finger firmly on the pulse of a dozen situations at any given time. While everyone else is finding their footing, everyone else is a mess, it's my job to be the anchor in the storm. They can spiral because I'm keeping it together for them.
I’ve even forced myself to leave my office more than necessary, drinking coffee with Jake in the morning or trading lighthearted banter with Maison.
I actually got Travis to smile. I managed to keep avoiding any direct contact with Adam, subsequently avoiding him trapping me into a therapeutic conversation I have no desire to endure.
I showed one of the survivors how to work the laundry machines, not saying anything about the bedding he’d hurriedly hidden to the side of the washer when I’d entered the room.
I put lasagna in the oven just a little while ago - enough for everyone, even if we probably have a long way to go before we’ll all be able to sit and eat as a group.
It’s a start. All of it is a start.
Everyone is settling.
I’m keeping it together.
Things might just be okay.
Then my phone rings
I answer with a smile, kicking my feet up on the desk as I do. I say, “I can’t believe you managed not to call me for this long. I am thoroughly impressed. I owe Adam twent-”
And Keaton says, “We lost one.”
I’m keeping it together. I am. I fucking have to.
“Who?” I force myself to ask.
“Ellis Woods.”
Ellis Woods. Rescued from the party and sent to the safehouse in Oregon.
24. Had been in captivity for just over two years.
He’d been doing sex work consensually for a while before that.
Ever since his girlfriend had their baby.
The local cops didn’t look for him once they found out what he’d been up to.
He got what was coming, in their opinion.
He had turned down the offer to be seen by a doctor at his assigned safehouse upon arrival. He had tucked himself away, hiding from the world, from the men and women working there. He’d hidden his injuries just the same. It was only when he started coughing up blood that he’d gone to them.
We’d sent him to the hospital with both a survivor and an operative, along with a foolproof cover story that the state police would back up if they needed to. Keaton had saved the recently retired Colonel’s daughter, after all. He owed the organization a favor.
The injury wasn’t even from the party. It was from the night before, when he was still at his master’s home. When we had no control.
We couldn’t have known. Not with him keeping it a secret. Not with him partially dressed at the party, and then covered in clothes and hiding at the safehouse. It wasn’t our fault for not knowing. It wasn't.
But we hadn’t gotten him the help he needed in time, either. We hadn’t rescued him in time.
One night.
If we’d been just one night earlier, he wouldn’t have been injured in his master’s home. He would have been at the party instead. He would have had time at the safehouse to recover. To heal.
He could have maybe gone back to his daughter - now five years old and looking just like him. Gone back to that girlfriend that never moved on or gave up hope. Or he could have started a new life. He could have become anyone or anything he wanted.
The point is that he could have lived. He should have lived.
Should we have had Travis push harder to get the last few alliances cemented so the operation could end earlier? Should we have taken bigger risks?
“It’s not our fault,” Keaton says, his voice thick. “Kellan said so.”
Easy for Kellan to say.
Then again, sometimes someone like him is the best judge of these things. When it’s all fact and logic with no emotion, the analysis is more accurate. He’s always reminded us of that. He’s always gotten so frustrated when we couldn’t just look at things the way he did.
“Kellan made you check the facts, huh?”
“Fuck the facts. Fuck - fuck him. Fucking psychopath can’t feel a fucking thing.
” Something crashes in the background. I curl forward, bracing my elbow on the desk so I can cradle my head.
It's worse than I thought. How had I not known that? “Fuck this whole - it wasn’t good enough! Everything we did - all the - no matter what I do, it’s never fucking enough! ”
Fuck.
“Keaton, hey, breathe-”
“What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it?
Of us?” he yells. “We break ourselves, over and over, and we hire operatives to break themselves - and for what? For fucking what? I saved you, Ace. I saved you and I was so sure - I really thought - how fucking stupid could I be? How fucking full of myself to think I could change a goddamn fucking thing? It’s this vicious circle, and none of us can get out, and Kellan can’t even fucking empathize, can’t fucking feel it, and I’m fucking drowning, I am always drowning, and it’s never enough! ”
“Keaton,” I plead.
This has clearly been growing in him. These kinds of blow-ups never come out of nowhere.
He's too good at bottling things up. Too good at putting on a brave face and pretending he isn't dying inside.
He never breaks until he reaches the point that leaves him shattered, and I let him get there this time.
I should have called and checked in with him instead of being thankful he hadn't bothered me yet. While I was internally groaning over how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be about updates on these particular survivors, he was filling himself to bursting with self-hatred and despair.
“He was so young! He was a fucking father! He had a whole life ahead of him and we - we didn’t - I couldn’t save - I couldn’t - I couldn’t-”
I lose the rest of his words beneath the sound of his sobs.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to take deep breaths.
My chest feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself, an invisible hand wrapped around my heart and squeezing.
The urge to give in is overwhelming. To just let myself be angry and devastated.
To just yell and sob. To sit and feel the heartbreak of this.
Only one of us gets to fall apart right now, though. It might as well be him.
“Casey St. James,” I say calmly.
His breath hitches. “That’s not-”
“If we’d rushed things, been more aggressive, maybe we would have saved Ellis, but we likely wouldn't have had the time to save Casey.”
“If we’d rushed things, maybe Carter would have never been kidnapped, terrorized, and raped in the first place!”
I force myself to stay calm. “It was my fault he was found, not yours, Keaton. If you want to go there-”
“That's not - you know that's not - it wasn't your fault, Ace. How could you have known?”
“And how could you have?” I counter. When he doesn't come up with an argument, I push further. “Besides, if Carter was never taken, then we definitely wouldn’t have saved Casey.”
He breathes out, low and slow. It’s achingly familiar.
I can picture him, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as he blows out smoke. Nostalgia wars with heartbreak inside my chest.
“I thought you quit?” I ask, my voice suddenly raspy like I’m the one smoking. “Cinnamon gum, right?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never been a fan of staying on wagons.”
Ah.
So he’s drinking again too.
“Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m home. Safe.” He clears his throat and I know this topic is no longer an option. We’re about to shift, and if I don’t want him to hang up on me, then I better play along. “I need to see them.”
And that’s what he shifts to?
Jesus Christ.
“Keaton-”
“Please.”