Page 108 of Inside the Wicked

She says nothing right away, and the weight of my vulnerability crushes slowly.

“He locked me in a room too,” she says quietly. “You know that, but I want to tell you myself.”

We need this so much. My body locks tense, and I know my anger and resentment will be palpable the more we exchange.

“They would take me out a couple of times a week for various torture,” I say. “Drowning, cutting, electrocution. That part was all a punishment for my desertion.”

I have to know what she’s thinking, but her face only crumples with sadness.

“You’re the resilient one, Rhett. There’s not many people who wouldn’t break under all that.”

I don’t respond, but I appreciate her faith in me.

Ana takes a deep breath to give a piece of her story in return. “He didn’t demand the cuts on my thighs, but I wanted to know what it felt like for you.”

I’m slammed by incredulity and heartbreak. Ana shakes her head, and I understand she doesn’t want to be reprimanded for it.

Ana bled for me . . .

My head tips back against the headrest in disbelief. “I kept track of the days, scoring them on the wall. It took 126 little birds to get back to mine.”

I let the weight of my head fall toward her. Her lip wobbles, gaze dropping to her lap.

“I trained so hard every day even though I knew he had other plans for me. I wanted to be strong and brave and smart enough to get you back, because I couldn’t accept you were gone no matter how much I heard it.”

We give each other pieces like the sharp edges of our terror, and trauma sews us back together. Tighter than ever before.

I swallow hard when I reach the worst of what I have to tell her. “They started to test my limits. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. I was given a gun, which either did or didn’t have a single bullet—there was no way to be sure. They made me stand before a teen kid and point the barrel at his head. If I didn’t shoot, they had you on a monitor while you were unaware. I don’t think they would have killed you, but I didn’t doubt they were allowed to follow through and at least hurt you gravely. By the fourth kid ...”

I have to pause. My fists clench so tightly in my lap until Ana’s close over them.

I go on. “I would have killed him had there been a bullet in my gun, but they didn’t take the chance. So he was shot by proxy by the one I was always under charge of. One sick, deranged bastard. His name was Micah.”

A shuddering breath escapes her, and Ana quickly swipes a tear. I’m torn apart where I sit, desperate to touch her, but I can’t tell if she’s repulsed by what I’ve done.

She says, her voice wavering, “He locked me in a room with a camera watching me. I had a table and some paper and pencils. I don’t know why. I don’t know how long I was in there. I didn’t think to track time. It was long enough that I lost it for a moment. I got on the chair and tore down the camera, thinking it was a triumph, but it was my biggest mistake. A man came in and barely said anything, but by the dark look of hunger in his eyes, I knew what I’d done. I fought him as best as I could, but it was like everything I’d pushed my body through, every skill and tactic to defend myself, became as good as child’s play. He had me pinned and managed to undo my shorts, and his hand ... his hand touched me. His fingers were inside me. Then I felt one of my snapped pencils, and the next thing I knew, it was in his neck.”

Ana pauses and lets her tears roll down her face, one after the other. Her eyes are terrified when they lift to mine.

“His name was Micah.”

It’s hard to explain the absolute horror that washes through my entire body and punishes the very core of my being. I stare out the windshield into pure dark nothingness, a calm rage collecting a storm inside of me. I want to kill him a thousand times. I can’t ask her, and maybe it’s sick of me to wish him alive only because I haven’t had my vengeance, but if I get it ... he’s going to regret ever being born.

“Say something,” Ana croaks.

I don’t know what to say. There aren’t enough words or gestures to convey how sorry I am to her, and I’m right back in my turmoil that everything she’s suffered is because of me.

She sniffs, and I vaguely hear her shuffling in her seat. Then her hands are on my shoulder, but I’m numb to it. I help her on autopilot as she climbs over, sitting across my lap with her back against the door.

“We both got out,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “More times than one.”

“There should never have been a first time,” I say. I don’t feel anything right now, and I know she deserves more.

“I would go through it all again to have you.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

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