Page 52 of Art of Sin

22PAST

16 YEARS OLD

“Tick, tock.”

The voice is bodiless in the dark, full of sinister mirth. I know he’s hard beneath his tailored slacks. There isn’t much he loves more than punishing our small acts of defiance.

I squeeze Nate’s hand tighter, so tightly his jagged fingernails pierce my skin. He’s shaking, his breath panting against my face.

“Where oh where are mis muñequitas?” he sings. His little dolls. “Tick tock, time’s running out.”

There’s a crash as he knocks into a stack of old boxes. Glass shatters mutedly, a sad tinkle of heirloom crystal never to be used. He curses, hissing out what he’ll do to us for breaking the basement’s only lightbulb, what he’s going to do when he finds us.

Our punishment for hiding.

Who he’ll give us to for that punishment.

I slap my other hand over Nate’s mouth to stifle his whimper.

The man keeps searching, growing angrier and angrier, louder and louder with his threats, until the sound of car tires over gravel distracts him. After a pregnant moment of silence, the doorbell rings. We can hear it—anywhere in the house, we can hear that bell.

“Lucky dolls,” he croons.

Heavy feet pound up the basement stairs. We wait until we hear his voice—the smooth, polished tone reserved for business associates—and several sets of footsteps reentering the house. Our safety assured for the moment, we emerge from our hiding spot.

Nate starts crying. Deep, silent heaves that jerk his narrow shoulders. I finish concealing the entrance of our secret place, replacing cushions over the hollowed-out inside of a sleeper couch, then draw him into my arms. He’s taller than me now, but more fragile.

I don’t cry.

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