Page 94 of Jayson
Two steps down.
Concrete colder than bone.
The air choked with mildew and bleach. A single bulb flickering overhead like it’s afraid to stay lit.
Riley’s bracelet.
Silver beads. A missing clasp. I see it on the ground. One bead crushed, like it was stepped on. Or stomped.
My father’s voice.
Not yelling. Commanding. The kind of voice that doesn’t allow disobedience.
“Do what has to be done.”
My nails dig into my thigh.
My breath comes sharp, shallow.
I remember the couch. I remember the way the leather stuck to my skin. My dress bunched around my waist. Cold fingers digging into my hips.
I remember not screaming. Because screaming made it worse.
I blink back into the present only when the door clicks softly open.
Jayson enters with a tray balanced in one hand. His other pushes the door shut behind him like he’s locking the world out for me. Always for me.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just sets the tray down on the low table near the window seat. Coffee. Toast. Fruit I won’t touch.
Then he kneels beside me, his eyes scanning my face. They flick from my mouth to my hands to the twitch in my jaw I can’t control.
He knows. He doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough.
“Eat,” he says gently. “Then shower. I’ve got meetings, but I’m not far. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
His lips press to mine—slow, grounding, certain. A kiss that promises something no one in my life has ever given me.
“Nothing will touch you here, Keira.”
I nod. Because I want to believe him.
I desperately want to believe him.
He leaves again with a last look, the door shutting behind him like the final note in a song I don’t know how to play.
And I’m alone. Not with the silence. With the memories. And they’re louder than anything.
I push the tray aside and press my forehead to the glass.
The world outside is moving. Trees shifting. Wind stirring. Normal. Alive. The world keeps moving, even as my heart stops.
But my insides are a riot. My ribs are a cage and the beast inside is clawing to get out.
One word tumbles through my head like a death sentence.
Problem.
That’s what he called me. The voice from the basement. Gravel and disdain.
