Page 64 of Liar Byrd
Or maybe it’s Vonn who makes me feel that way.
Two hours later, I’ve had enough.
My ankle still hurts when I move it, but my mind, when I’m not busy with something, likes to drag me into the past.
I get up.
Makhi left some black and gray sweats and T-shirts for me to wear while I rested. Good thing too, or I’d still be wearing my uniform or the jeans and hoodie from the women’s shelter.
Barefoot and moving slowly, I hobble toward the kitchen, attracted by the delicious savory smells wafting from it.
“You should be resting,” Nance calls out, her back to me as she mixes something in a big pot.
“I’m bored. Can I help chop something?” Once I’ve double-checked to make sure the gardener isn’t loitering around, I take a seat at the table with a grateful sigh.
Nance twists around to look at me, sighs loudly, and sets her spoon down on a spoon rest. “Don’t move.”
She returns moments later with my cushion from the den, drags a dining chair toward me, and places the cushion on the seat, gesturing at me. “Lift your ankle and put it here. You need to keep your leg elevated.”
“Did Vonn tell you?” I have to lift my leg with both hands, and it still feels difficult.
She helps me place my ankle on the cushion and returns to the kitchen. “Mr. Gabriel sprained his ankle when he was ten.”
I hadn’t realized she had worked for him that long. When we’ve talked in the last two weeks, it’s almost always about cleaning.
“Why do you call him Mr. Gabriel, but you call Vonn and Makhi by their first names?”
“Mr. Gabriel is the master of the house.”
My lip quirks in a smile. “Masterof the house?”
“Instead of laughing at my old-fashioned ways, how about doing something useful and peeling some potatoes for dinner?” she tells me firmly, adding in a gentler tone, “We’re having chicken pie and I need help with the potatoes and the broccoli.”
We’ve developed a very different relationship from the one that started off so badly. I like Nance. She’s tough but fair, and I always know where I stand with her. She’s as willing to point out what I’m doing wrong as she is to praise me when I do something well.
I grab the bag of potatoes, a peeler, and the large pot she hands me. As if she senses I came looking for a distraction, she tells me how she plans the week's meals.
When she’s talking, I’m not thinking about Jeremiah or the compound; I’m just peeling potatoes and listening to Nance, which is exactly the distraction I needed.
The next afternoon, after another thoroughly boring morning, my ankle is feeling a little better, so I go looking for Nance to help her with the cooking.
Instead, I find Kit.
It was only a matter of time before the gardener’s patience ran out. I knew it would happen eventually, but I still hoped it wouldn’t.
Immediately, I turn to leave.
He’s faster than I am, gripping my wrist and yanking me back into the kitchen and slamming the door shut.
He shoves me against a wall and steps in close, trapping me. My heart races, a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I start to panic.
“Let me go,” I whisper, wishing I didn’t feel like I was back in the compound all over again.
Kit’s expression is cold. There’s no sign of the flirtatious smiles I kept trying to avoid. “I see how it is.”
I try to slip away.
His grip tightens on my wrist, and he slams me against the wall, harder this time. So hard I cry out.
