Page 154 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

There's a woman who is painfully thin. A collar is fastened around her neck. The chain runs from the collar to her wrists, binding her arms in front of her, and then down to her ankles, forcing her to shuffle in tiny, humiliating steps. She's naked and ghostly pale and looks like she hasn't eaten in months. Her skin is a map of fresh bruises and cuts. It's not rocket science to figure out who gave her those.

The rage inside me is a living thing, clawing through my tissue, desperate for release. Every instinct screams at me to charge through the open door, to end him here and now, but I stay frozen, knowing that one wrong move would doom multiple lives.

Miller says something I can't hear, and the woman shuffles toward him. She drops to her knees.Jesus…He's making her give him a blow job. I have to bite down on my lip until I taste blood to keep from losing control.

I lower myself back behind the storage locker, trembling with fury and the effort of staying put. My thoughts are a minefield. This is what he did to Londyn too, isn't it? He chained her up and used her like a fucking toy. Seeing a visual of it turns my stomach so aggressively I have to force the thoughts away before I puke on the deck.

I swallow down the nausea because I have to focus. Plans have changed.

It's better to abort the mission for tactical reasons, but I won't leave this woman. I won't leave her like this so she can suffer another night under this depraved piece of shit's control.

I close my eyes, calming my breath and the simmering lava beneath my skin. There has to be a way. I need to think.

The clink of chains and a muffled sob reach me, and it's all I can do not to rush in, gun blazing.

But that would be suicide.

Think this through.

I need to get the woman out, but when Miller wakes up, he'll be on guard, wondering why the woman is missing and who got in. He might simply leave in a rage, call some contacts, but there's a chance he'd search around. I'll have to hide the drugs and pray Miller doesn't find them until it's too late. It'll be tricky, but it's possible. I'll stash the baggies in places where a dog will sniff but Miller should miss. The mattress. Under the sink. If he finds one, there will be others. He won't have time to rip the entire boat apart.

Get the woman out. Stash the baggies with care. Leave.

Miller needs to be asleep before I make a move, so I settle in to wait, my muscles tense and ready.

The minutes crawl by like hours. Finally, after thirty minutes, the lights blink off inside the cabin. I wait another hour, making sure Miller is fully settled. When there are no signs of life, I start my approach, pulling my gun from its holster and twisting the suppressor into place.

The sliding door is still open; Miller must feel safe here. He's wrong.

I slip through the door. The living room is dark but empty, so I ease myself around furniture and duck into a hallway. Up ahead, a door is open. I approach carefully. I stop at the edge of the door frame and listen. I hear some heavy breathing, but that's it, so I peek into the room.

It's the main bedroom. Expansive. Lots of wood furniture and pretentious abstract decor. There's an Oscar sitting on a shelf. Miller is sprawled on the bed, snoring softly. I watch for any sign of movement. Nothing. He's out.

I ease back, searching the shadows for the woman. She's not in the room with him, so I retrace my steps, scanning each dark corner, peering into side areas. Then I see a narrow door at the end of the hallway, cracked open just enough to let a sliver of dim light escape. I creep toward it and my pulse quickens. The gun stays up, ready. I nudge the door with my foot, inching it open, my breath held tight in my chest.

The woman is huddled on the floor with her back against a wall. She's staring at blacked-out windows. This room has no luxury and feels like a different place entirely. There isn't even a fucking bed, only a sleeping bag on the wooden floor. A single bulb burns weakly in a corner, casting her in a bleak, yellow glow. A thin blanket is draped over her battered body, her skin as pale as the fabric. She's not resting, just staring vacantly upward.

I step inside, and she gasps, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. I put a finger to my lips, a silent plea for her to stay quiet and trust me. She's tense, every muscle coiled with fear, so I whisper, "I'm here for him." It's all I can think to say.

I watch as the words sink in and create a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Her withered shoulders drop slightly, but she still looks wary, a woman who's learned not to believe in rescue. I move closer slowly, showing her I'm not a threat. Her gaze follows my every movement.

I kneel beside her, pulling the lock picking kit from my pocket and holding it out. She stares at it, then at me, as if trying to decide whether to trust this improbable reality. Her lips part, the beginning of a question, but no sound comes out. I nod, willing her to understand and believe this is real.

Her hands tremble as she raises them. The chains rattle. I set to work using the small tools as quickly as I can. The first lock gives with a metallic click, then the second. I unwrap the chain and cuffs from her wrists and her skin is rubbed raw underneath.

She moves her hands tentatively, as if testing whether they're truly free. The blanket slips and exposes the full extent of her bruises, but she doesn't even move to cover herself. It's become completely normal for her to be naked in front of a man.

I fight down the rage, keeping it buried beneath the urgency of the moment. I move to the chains and cuffs on her ankles. As I work, she watches me with a stunned intensity, like she's afraid I'll vanish if she blinks.

The locks click, releasing her and revealing ankles that are raw meat. Seeing a woman like this is like staring into the depths of human evil, but I can't think about her injuries now; I can only think about the task of freeing her. I move to the final restraint—a thick metal collar around her throat. The chain connects to a bolt in the floor, like she's a fucking dog. The metal is cold beneath my fingers as I work the lock, trying not to brush against the bruised skin of her neck. When it finally gives, I ease the chain to the floor without a sound.

I pull the blanket up to cover her body and she grips it. "Wait on the deck for me," I whisper, my voice barely disturbing the air between us. "Stay hidden. I'll take you somewhere safe. Or I can help you cross the space to the dock and you can just leave. Your choice. But go very quietly."

Her eyes are liquid pools reflecting the dim light, tears gathering at the corners. She mouths 'thank you' like the words themselves are too precious to risk speaking out loud. She stands on shaky legs, testing her newfound freedom, then crosses carefully to the door in silent, featherlight steps.

I move to the living room first, watching the woman slip out the open doorway and then duck down. I study the space I'm in and then tuck a baggie into the lining of an expensive leather couch where the stitching is already coming loose. In the kitchen, I find an area in the baseboard behind the refrigerator where a search dog's nose will lead the cops straight to it.

Miller's bedroom is the most dangerous and the most necessary. I slip in like a ghost, each footstep timed with the sounds of his breathing. I tape one baggie to the back of the toilet tank. The mattress is memory foam, so I make a precise incision along the cover seam, just large enough to slide the heroin in. The cut is nearly invisible unless you know where to look.

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