Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Marie
The Manchineel branches sat in the supply room like coiled serpents, their leaves a deceptively cheerful green against the gray concrete walls.
It was wrapped in plastic and stamped with red warning symbols that might as well have been written in another language for all the good they did the guards who'd delivered them.
Small yellow-green fruits hung from some of the branches, innocent-looking things that locals called "little apples of death." I'd signed for them an hour ago with steady hands, then waited until the evening shift started.
It had fewer people, dimmer lighting, and the quiet that came post-dinner. I was about to make tonight’s post-dinner very interesting.
My hands moved automatically as I packed the small canvas bag I'd stolen from the laundry room a week ago. Receipts first—the ones with dates, client names, and amounts that proved what was happening down here, what was being bought and sold.
Castellanos kept meticulous records because wealthy men liked documentation of their purchases, even when those purchases involved human beings. I'd been transcribing them for a while, building evidence one stolen sheet at a time.
Next came the hair strands. Small plastic bags, each one labeled with a girl's name in my handwriting. Nineteen women who deserved justice if I didn't make it out alive. DNA evidence that couldn't be argued away or dismissed as delusion.
Then the security badges I'd swiped over the past year—three of them, each from a different guard who'd gotten careless. Dennis’ badge sat on top, the one he'd left on the table in the common room last month while he went to deal with a client complaint.
I'd grabbed it so fast my breath stopped and hidden it away.
It was all evidence. Proof of everything I'd need to burn this place to the ground if I survived the next few hours.
The bag went under my mattress, positioned exactly where I could grab it in seconds. Then I turned my attention to the Manchineel branches, still wrapped in plastic, still looking like ordinary greenery despite the toxin inside them.
My hands trembled as I pulled on the latex gloves I'd taken from the medical supplies. The plastic was thin enough that I could still feel the smooth bark of the branch through it as I carefully unwrapped the first one.
The leaves were glossy, bright green, and shaped like elongated teardrops. It was honestly beautiful. Nothing about them screamed danger except the milky white sap that oozed from the broken end where they'd cut it, thick and sticky.
I thought about my dad and all the years I’d walk the beach with him, learning every plant, tree, and flower that grew on our island. He'd stopped dead when we reached a Manchineel tree, his hand on my shoulder firm and serious.
"Never touch that, Marie. Not the bark, not the leaves. Never stand near it in the rain. That sap will burn you so bad you'll pray for death just to make it stop."
I knew what I was looking at now, and knew exactly how deadly it was. It would hurt, and the burn would spread through layers of my skin like acid through paper. I knew, yet I was going to do it anyway.
After five years underground, the pain would be worth it if it bought me freedom.
And freedom meant helping the girls I’d be leaving behind. It meant bringing help back for the faces I saw every time I closed my eyes. I'd rather die trying than spend another day managing their suffering while pretending I had any control.
The branch was smooth through my glove as I positioned the broken end against my left forearm, just below my elbow.
Then I pressed down and held it there.
For three seconds, nothing happened. Long enough that I thought maybe I'd miscalculated, maybe this particular tree wasn't toxic enough, maybe I'd just ruined my only chance at escape.
But the burn started deep, bone-deep, like someone had injected liquid flames directly into my marrow. It spread fast, crawling up my arm in waves that made my vision go white at the edges and my knees buckle against the concrete floor.
I bit down hard on the collar of my shirt to keep from screaming.
I counted to ten and made it to six before I couldn't stand it anymore and dropped the branch, gasping and shaking, completely certain I'd just made the worst mistake of my entire life.
It hurt—it hurt so bad, and my arm looked angry. The skin where the sap had touched was already crimson, raised welts forming in real time as I watched. The burn pulsed with my heartbeat, each beat sending fresh, hot agony radiating down my forearm to my fingertips to my shoulder.
Tears ran down my face without permission, my body's automatic response to burning pain that felt like it would consume me whole. This had nothing on a jellyfish sting.
But I didn't wash it off. With all the power I had, I grabbed my bag from under the mattress, slung it across my body and beneath my shirt, and stumbled toward the hallway. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through my arm, the welts swelling and swelling.
My vision blurred as I found Dave—one of the night guards, the one who'd smiled at me while driving me to my captivity. He looked up from his phone, took one look at my arm, and went pale.
"Marie?" His voice came from far away. “The fuck happened?"
"I don't know." The words came out choked. It wasn’t hard to sound scared when I was genuinely terrified this might not work, that I'd burned myself for nothing. "I was moving supplies and something touched me—it burns—it won't stop burning—"
"Jesus Christ." He was on his feet, backing away like my arm might explode, which it honestly felt close to. Like whatever I had might leap to him through air and skin. "Don't touch anything. Don't—fuck, ew, I need the fucking doctor."
He radioed while I stood there shaking, watching my arm swell and burn in real time. The welts were an angry red and raised, hot to the touch, screaming and agonizing.
It looked contagious, it looked like the plague, and that was enough to ease the pain.
The Sanctuary’s doctor arrived within minutes—a thin, foreign man who Castellanos kept around to handle medical issues without asking questions. He took one look at my arm, and his professional composure shattered.
"What is this? How long has it been like this?"
"Ten minutes, maybe?" I let my voice shake, genuine terror bleeding through because I was terrified. Not of the burn, that was done, but of what came next. "It's getting worse and I can feel it spreading."
He backed away, refusing to get close enough to examine it properly. His hands stayed pressed against his sides, his eyes wide and fearful. "This isn't a normal burn. This is—I don't know what this is. Necrotic tissue? Chemical exposure?"
He looked at Dave, something like fear crawling across his face. "This could be contagious. We need to isolate her."
Dave was already radioing Castellanos, and I could hear the panic threading through his voice as he described my arm. He said it was "spreading,” "contagious,” and "might infect others.” Each word was a step closer to freedom, each syllable of fear music to my ears.
What I wasn’t expecting… was Castellanos himself to come down. My entire body went icy cold despite the fire in my arm.
I hadn't seen him up close in months. I’d managed to keep our interactions to hallways and schedules these last few years, to maintain enough distance that I didn't have to remember what his hands felt like.
But now he was right there, close enough that I could smell him, and close enough that I could see the cold cruelty in his eyes, that look that said he owned the girls—owned me.
He'd been the worst of it all. The clients were terrible yet temporary, but Castellanos was permanent. He owned this place, owned us, and in the first year, when I'd still fought back, he'd made sure I knew what that ownership meant.
His hands had been everywhere, controlling and groping, until they'd realized I was more valuable as management than merchandise.
I flinched when he moved closer. I couldn’t help the way my body recoiled, even as I tried to stay still.
He noticed and smiled, a cold, knowing expression. Then he looked at my arm, and the smile disappeared.
"What happened?" His voice was tight, controlled. The voice of a man who'd just realized his entire operation might be at risk.
"I don't know. I was organizing supplies and felt something wet on my arm. By the time I looked, it was already burning."
"Show me your hands." He didn't wait for permission; he grabbed my good arm and examined my palm, looking for something that would tell him what I'd touched. His grip was hard enough to bruise, and I bit back a whimper.
He found nothing, of course. I'd worn gloves and been careful.
"This doesn't just happen." He released my arm, but the disgust on his face was clear now. He looked at me like I was contaminated, ruined, potentially dangerous to everything he'd built. "You must have touched something. Chemicals? Cleaning supplies?"
"I don't know.” Tears ran down my face, genuine ones mixed with desperation. “It hurts. I need help."
He backed away from me, stepping back like I might infect him through proximity alone. The man who'd touched me whenever he wanted, who'd made sure I understood that my body belonged to him whether I consented or not, was now repulsed by the sight of me.
The irony would have been funny if I weren't so terrified.
"Get her out of here." He pointed at the doctor as if banishing something unclean. "Take her to the private clinic on the east side. Quarantine her, figure out what this is, and fix it. I don't care what it costs."
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack through. This was it. They were taking me out. Taking me away from The Sanctuary, away from Castellanos and the constant threat of what he could do.
This was my only chance.