Chapter 15 – ELLIE
ELLIE
The lecture hall spins around me like I'm drunk on cheap vodka, except I haven't touched a drop in three days.
The pills are another story, but that's survival.
Professor Dodge’s voice drones on about economic theory, supply and demand curves that look like the trajectory of my sanity, plummeting fast and hard toward rock bottom.
My phone sits face-down on my desk, and I flip it over for the fifth time in as many minutes. Still nothing from Mom. She usually texts back within an hour, even if it's just a thumbs up emoji or a GIF she discovered that makes zero sense even in context.
But it's been radio silence since yesterday morning.
One, two, three, four, five.
My fingers tap the rhythm against my thigh, trying to calm the storm brewing in my chest.
It's been three days—a bad number—since I found my boys again. And I've been jumping at shadows, checking my rearview mirror for a bike I know is there even when I can't see it.
Tank has been following me.
I caught a glimpse of him yesterday outside the coffee shop, that massive frame unmistakable even wrapped in a leather bomber jacket and from across the street.
I was so fucking tempted to walk up to him and demand answers. But the other part of my brain where logic is still alive and kicking knows I'm not ready for that conversation. Not when Kade's words still play in my skull like a broken record.
We want your fucking soul, Princess.
"Miss Waterson?"
My head snaps up. Professor Dodge stares at me expectantly, along with half the lecture hall. Shit.
"Sorry, could you repeat the question?" I ask.
A few students snicker. The professor's expression shifts from expectant to thoroughly disappointed, the look every authority figure perfects when dealing with the senator's space cadet stepdaughter.
"I asked if you could explain the relationship between market equilibrium and consumer surplus."
The words might as well be in ancient Greek. I've been physically present in every class this week, but my mind's been trapped in that warehouse, circling the same impossible choice like a dog chasing its tail.
"I... market equilibrium occurs when supply meets demand," I manage, the textbook definition floating up from somewhere in my scrambled brain. "Consumer surplus is the difference between what consumers are willing to pay and what they actually pay."
"Correct, if simplistic." He turns back to the board, dismissing me.
My phone buzzes. Finally.
But it's not Mom. It's Heather.
HEATHER
Party tonight at Kappa Sig. Josh will be there. He's been asking about you again.
I'd rather gargle broken fucking glass than deal with Josh's wandering hands and beer breath again.
But at least Heather's text reminds me that I still have a normal life.
A life where my biggest concern should be avoiding handsy frat boys and maybe slashing their tires, not negotiating with dangerous men who used to be my only safe place.
The class finally ends and I'm out the door before Dodge can assign whatever soul-crushing reading he's planning. My fingers tap out a panicked text on the screen as I navigate the crowded hallway.
MOM
Please text me back. I'm getting worried.
Nothing.
The message shows as delivered but not read.
That cold dread that's been building all morning crystallizes into pure fucking terror. Mom always has her phone. Always. It's her lifeline to the outside world, the one thing Todd can't completely control because he needs her to be reachable for his political bullshit.
I practically run to my car, my stupid fucking designer sneakers slapping against the pavement.
The drive to Blue River Heights usually takes forty-five minutes. I make it in thirty, blowing through yellow lights and taking corners like I'm auditioning for Fast and Furious.
The guard at the gate waves me through without question.
The mansion looms at the end of the tree-lined drive, a beast made of white columns and pristine gardens that hide the rot underneath.
It looks like something out of Southern Living magazine, a place where happy families have Sunday dinners and nobody ever screams behind closed doors.
What a fucking joke.
Todd's Bentley isn't in the driveway. His driver must have taken him to the airport for whatever "business trip" he's on this week. Probably fucking his twenty-two-year-old campaign manager in a hotel room paid for by taxpayers, but at least he's not here.
I hope to fuck that's why he's gone.
I use my key, the one Todd made a big show of giving me at a press conference about family unity, and the silence that greets me makes my skin crawl.
"Mom?" I call out.
My voice echoes through the marble foyer. Nothing.
"Mom? Where are you?"
I check the kitchen first. Empty, but there's an open bottle of wine on the counter, mostly gone. The living room's next, then Todd's study even though she's usually banned from there. Each empty room ratchets my panic higher.
Finally, I hear soft music drifting from upstairs. Mom always plays classical music when she's trying to pretend everything's fine.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering in my ears. Her bedroom door is cracked open, and I push through without knocking.
The smell of wine hits me first. It's so pungent it's like she's been bathing in it. Mom's sprawled across the king bed in her silk robe, the one Todd bought her in Vienna for their anniversary. She's conscious, sort of, her eyes unfocused as she hums along to the music.
But it's her face that makes my blood turn to ice.
A purple-black bruise blooms like a rose across her left cheekbone. Her eye is swollen nearly shut, and there's a cut on her lip that's still tacky with blood.
The sight knocks the wind out of me. He's never hit her face before. He likes leaving marks that can be covered up, not the kind that could tarnish his reputation.
"Mom!" I rush to her side, my hands hovering over her face, afraid to touch and make it worse. "What the fuck happened?"
She blinks slowly, trying to focus on me. When she smiles, it's crooked and wrong. Like her face doesn't quite remember how to do it properly.
"Eleanor, sweetheart. You're here." Her words slur together, and I can smell the wine on her breath mixed with something chemical.
My eyes land immediately on the prescription bottles on the nightstand. Three of them, all different. I recognize the Xanax, that's her usual. But the others...
"Mom, did you take all of these?" I grab the bottles, reading the labels. Ambien. Percocet. "With wine? For fuck's sake, you can't mix these, Mom!"
She waves her hand dismissively, nearly knocking over her wine glass. "Just needed to sleep. Just needed... needed to not feel anything for a while."
"We're going to the hospital." I pull out my phone, already dialing 911. "And then we're calling the cops. That fucking bastard—"
Her hand shoots out faster than should be possible in her state, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "No. No cops."
"Mom, look at your face! He hit you! We have evidence. We can—"
"No cops, sweetheart." Her voice turns sharp, desperate. The fog in her eyes clears for a moment, replaced by pure terror. "You know why, Eleanor. You know why we can't."
I do know.
I know exactly why we can't call the cops, can't go to the hospital, can't leave a paper trail that proves Senator Todd Waterson beats his wife.
He has something on her. Something bad enough that she'd rather take his fists than risk exposure.
I've never been able to figure out what it is. Mom's past before she met my father is a mystery she's never wanted to discuss.
But Todd knows. And he holds it over her head like a guillotine, ready to drop the blade the moment she steps out of line.
Just like he holds her over me.
"Okay," I whisper, setting my phone aside. "Okay, no cops. But we need to get you cleaned up."
I help her sit up and she sways in my arms. The combination of pills and alcohol has her more fucked up than I've seen her in years. Not since those nights in the trailer when she'd come home from double shifts at the diner, too exhausted and broken to do anything but collapse.
"He's in Washington," she mumbles as I guide her toward the bathroom. "Important vote. Won't be back for... for a week."
Of course. The sick fuck times everything perfectly. Can't have the senator's wife showing up to charity galas looking like a domestic violence poster.
I run warm water in the sink and gently clean the blood from her lip with a dish towel, one of the plain ones she won't balk at ruining. She winces but doesn't pull away. She just stares at herself in the mirror like she's seeing a stranger.
"I used to be so pretty," she says, her voice small and lost. "Your father said I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."
"You're still beautiful, Mom."
"He was going to leave his wife for us." She laughs, not hearing me. "That's what he said. Just needed time to figure things out. Time to make it right."
I've heard this story before, usually when she's drunk and feeling nostalgic. How my father promised her the world and gave her nothing but me and a broken heart. How his real family found out about us and made sure we disappeared forever.
"And then Todd saved us," she continues, her words thick with irony. "My knight in shining armor. Pulled us out of that trailer and gave us this beautiful life."
"Some fucking life," I mutter, dabbing antiseptic on her cut. She doesn't reply. Just keeps staring off into space like she's watching a dream unfold in front of her eyes.
I guide her back to bed, and she curls up like a child, pulling the covers up to her chin. The pills are really hitting now. Her eyes keep drifting shut only to snap open again, like she's fighting against the pull of unconsciousness.
"Stay with me?" she asks, her voice small and scared.
"Of course."
I climb into bed beside her, careful not to jostle her. She immediately curls into me, her head resting on my shoulder, the smell of her shampoo filling my nose.
I'm transported back to those nights in the trailer when I was the one seeking comfort. When she'd stroke my hair and promise that everything would be okay, that we'd find our happily ever after eventually.
Back then, I thought I'd already found mine.
Now I'm the one stroking her hair, feeling the gray roots she hasn't been able to get touched up because Todd doesn't like her leaving the house without him lately. Her breathing starts to even out as the cocktail of chemicals finally drags her under.
"I'm sorry, baby," she mumbles, half-asleep. "I'm so sorry I brought you into this."
"Shhhh. It's okay."
"Tried to protect you. Tried to give you better…"
"I know, Mom. I know."
She goes quiet for a long moment, and I think she's finally out. Then, so soft I almost miss it, she whispers again.
"He's going to kill me one day."
My blood turns to ice. "No. No, he's not. I won't let him."
But she's already out, her breath evening out into the deep rhythm of drugged sleep. I keep stroking her hair, my mind racing through all my twisted plans. Through the one plan that's been looming over me for three days like a guillotine of my own.
Nothing feels more twisted than the golden bars coiling around us.