Page 22 of Quiet Rage
My fingers are starting to prune by the time I pull myself together enough to sit up straight and heave a deep sigh. I’m absolutely drained, hollowed out, having gone through every emotion imaginable since I ended up in that closet. I feel like I’ve aged a decade as I force myself to my feet and go through the motions of washing up.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seriously considered giving up, ending it all, but it might be the closest I’ve ever come to making it happen. I guess I’m too stubborn, or maybe I’m just scared. Either way, by the time I’m finished and have turned off the water, I’m determined to get through this somehow. For all I know, they’ll end up killing me trying to top their evil little prank the next time they get bored and want to hurt me.
But I won’t be the one who makes it happen. I won’t let them break my spirit like that. They don’t deserve it.
It is such a relief to get dressed once I’m dried off. To dry my hair, to let the warm air hit my skin after hours spent shivering and cold and aching. Meeting my gaze in the mirror over my dresser, I can’t help thinking back on the way he wanted me to look up at him when he finished. There’s a weird sensation in my chest when I remember locking eyes with him. It was like we connected in that moment, as sick and twisted as the idea is. It could’ve been a lot worse—I know that. I expected it to be as soon as I saw it was him who had come to free me.
But my jaw tightens, and my eyes narrow, and I remind myself who he is. I can’t forget all of the harm he’s done. He doesn’t get a pass just because he had an attack of conscience.
A knock at the bedroom door makes me jump and turn off the dryer. “Are you ready?” It’s Dad, and no big surprise, he sounds impatient. “Come on, we need to get to the store.”
I wonder what he would’ve done if I never came home today. He probably would have looked for me, but only because I didn’t show up for my shift. I don’t know why it is so important that he never find out what’s going on at school. I guess I don’t want to worry him and Mom when they have already been through so much over Jason. I don’t want to admit I can’t handle things on my own, either. That has a lot to do with it.
“I’ll be right there,” I call out, running a brush through my hair, wondering how he would react if he knew that just an hour ago, I was waking up on a freezing cold, filthy floor, wearing nothing but my underwear.
Some things, I can do with my eyes closed. Working behind the register at the store is one of them.
If anything, I’m kind of glad to be working today. I can switch my brain off while going through the motions of greeting customers and ringing them up. I can read during quiet times when there’s nobody in the store. If I was home, there’s a good chance I would zone out, reliving every terrible moment of my captivity. I think the worst part was having no idea what time it was, how long I had been in there. How much longer I would have to survive it.
Dad is in the back, dealing with inventory stuff, which is another small blessing. He doesn’t even know I didn’t come home yesterday. He hasn’t said a word about it.
Something has been on his mind lately—again, I remember Kellen mentioning the beating Dad took. The question of why the beating happened is more important than who delivered it, and I have to wonder how much Dad is hiding from us. Not that he has to work hard to hide anything from Mom, zoned out as she always is, and not that he would typically share things with me, anyway. But if there are problems, challenges, I feel like I would rather know about them than have it all be a secret.
Timing is an incredible thing sometimes. Like the timing of Kellen releasing me from my prison when he did, just early enough that I was able to get ready for the day before my parents knew I was gone. I stand behind the counter, asking myself what Dad could be hiding from us, when the bell above the door chimes, and I look up to find two tough-looking guys strolling in.
Something about them makes my body go still and my senses sharpen. Something about the overly casual way they look around tells me they’re not customers. They seem hostile, like they’re sizing the place up and taking a mental inventory.
The younger of the two, shorter with flinty eyes, looks at me before one corner of his mouth slides upward in a way that makes me want to gag. I have truly had enough of men to last me a long time, but I’m supposed to be professional, so I give him a tight smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you can. Where is the owner?”
Meanwhile, his buddy walks along the ends of the four rows, looking down each like he expects to find something.
“I can get him for you, if you want.” Something tells me I shouldn’t, but then again, something tells me they won’t leave until they see him. I don’t get the sense that these are the kinds of guys who accept the wordnoeasily.
As it turns out, Dad must be watching the feed from the camera mounted over the door. Suddenly, he’s rushing out from the office. “If you’re here to see me, see me,” he barks, red-faced, teeth bared in a snarl. “Leave her alone.”
“That’s just fine.” The older man—not exactly old, but closer to middle age than the other one—looks friendly but sounds menacing as he steps up to Dad, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “You know what we’re here for, so don’t waste our time.”
What are they here for? The question sits in my mouth, where I hold it back behind clenched teeth.
“Nico, why don’t we go back to my office and talk about this?” Dad keeps glancing my way, telling me he doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of me. Is this what he’s been hiding? What do these men want with him?
“There’s really nothing to talk about,” the younger guy says, while Nico squeezes his shoulder. I can see his fingers sinking in until Dad winces. “We’re here to collect what you owe.”
His tongue darts out to moisten his lips while my thoughts race. That’s what this is about? I should’ve known. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s owed money, but it is the first time it’s gone this far, with people threatening him, beating him.
“I don’t have the full amount,” he says with a shrug. “I can give you everything I can spare right now, but it’s not the full amount.” Sweat trickles down his temple, and he starts to tremble when he gets no reaction from the two men standing in front of him. God, I wish he kept a gun under the counter. At least I wouldn’t feel so helpless.
“That’s too bad, Frank,” Nico says, pulling him in close, almost whispering. “Because Dante and me, we have orders.”
“Our boss told us if you can’t pay, things have to get ugly.” Dante actually manages to sound like he regrets what he’s about to do before he walks over to a rack of magazines and tips it onto the floor, where it lands with a deafening crash.
“What are you doing? Stop that!” My cries fall on deaf ears as I watch in horror. Nico holds Dad in place, forcing him to watch as his partner sweeps an arm down one of the shelves that holds canned goods, dog and cat food, boxes of cereal. He laughs while marching down the aisle, stomping on the boxes, making them split open and scatter their contents.
Then, he decides to start kicking the freezer doors. I flinch every time he makes contact, eventually cracking the glass before he starts kicking it in.
“Okay, okay!” Dad shouts over the sound of glass breaking and my tiny, terrified squeals.
