Page 21 of Kept

I was stunned.

He slapped me across the face, his police academy ring splitting my lip. He stormed out of the house. My mother walked in from the kitchen just in time to see me on the living room carpet, blood dripping into the pile of birthday cake on the floor.

Late that night, my mother woke me.

“Shhh, shh. You can’t make a sound. We’re leaving. Now.”

I slipped into sneakers and grabbed my backpack.

“Quiet, pack some clothes.”

We crept through the house, headed to the back door, me with my stuffed backpack and my mom with her overnight bag.

I heard a door fly open upstairs.

“Where the fuck are you?” I heard my father yell. I heard him thumping loudly down the stairs. My mother opened a hall closet, the sort you’d put winter coats and the vacuum cleaner and the other odd junk you didn’t want seen in, and pushed me inside.

“No matter what, stay here. Stay quiet, baby.” She pulled the jackets in front of me and closed the door. I peeked through the slats.

“What the fuck are you doing down here?” My father slurred his words, his eyes glassy. Then he saw our two bags dropped in the hallway. “You think you can run out on me? Take my kid from me?” He backhanded her, and she landed on the floor a few feet away.

When I saw her reaching for the gun he kept on his work belt by the door, he bellowed, “Fucking bitch, don’t even try.”

She pulled on the gun but couldn’t get it out of the complicated police holster.

My father wrenched it from her hands.

I’ll never forget what it sounded like when the gun went off.

CHAPTER 12

Sarah

I shiver, both from the chill of old memories and the cooling bath water. I kick the drain with my foot and step out to wrap up in another fluffy, warm towel. I pad back to the vanity and finish digging through my duffle bag. All of my daily items are here. Deodorant, toothpaste, combs, brushes, makeup, moisturizer, and even leave-in conditioner.

What man would know to grab all this stuff? Does he have a henchwoman?

Regardless, I finish up my routine, then dig through the clothes, a respectable collection of jeans, yoga pants, shirts, underwear and a pair of sneakers.

“This is good, right? You don’t pack a bag for someone you’re going to murder, right?” I ask myself. Right? So, I get dressed, comb out my hair, put makeup on, and start pacing the room.

Wait. What mafia boss has a lock on his bedroom door that keeps someone inside?

I creep over to the door, like I expect it to burst open at any time. Instead, it opens on well-oiled, silent hinges. I tiptoe through the house, before the unmistakable smell of coffee drifts over. I make my way down the stairs, past the other bedroom and several closed doors, and then emerge into the open living room. On the far side is a kitchen and informal dining area.

Seated on a stool at the kitchen island is a man with short, neatly-styled dark hair dressed in all black. He’s facing away from me and casually reading the newspaper.

“Um, hi,” I say tentatively.

The mystery man spins on his chair. “Good morning, Sarah,” he says pleasantly. He’s got a very familiar set of dark brown eyes and the same strong jaw. His black hair has a few streaks of grey. He’s clean-shaven and smiles reassuringly. I scan over his black on black outfit, but stop at the buttoned neckline and square white collar.

“You’re a priest?” I blurt.

He laughs and gestures to the coffee pot. “I certainly hope so, or else I’ve been celibate for no reason whatsoever.”

I walk to the kitchen and grab a mug from an open cabinet, then fill it from the stainless-steel French press sitting on the island.

“Cream is in the fridge, if you need it.”

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