“You mentioned he went to prison,” he says, and I nod.
“Yeah,” I respond and sniff before explaining, “He was caught for gun trafficking. I was five when the cops arrested him in front of me. The vision of my dad on his knees, being handcuffed, and promising me that everything would be okay is still so vivid in my mind.”
“So what happened?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I resign, “That was it. I never saw him again. I went into foster care and had the shittiest of caseworkers out there. He went to Menard Prison, and I wound up in Posen, which was five hours away.”
“Nobody ever took you to go see him?”
“No. My caseworker barely made time to come see me, let alone drive me across the state. But she did make the time to come tell me when my dad had been killed in a knife fight.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, turning my palm up. His voice is gentle when he says, “You didn’t answer me when I asked you this before, but I need to know.” He then drags his thumb over the faint white scars on my wrist. “Tell me how you got these.”
My head drops in embarrassment, not wanting to add another layer of disgust on top of everything else he knows about me. With my hand still in his, he takes his other and covers my wrist with it. When I look into his eyes, he urges, “I want you to tell me.”
So, I take a hard swallow and muster up what strength I can to confine the pain. It takes me a moment, and after a measured breath, I cut through another wound and allow it to bleed out for Declan. “When I wasn’t in the basement, I was in the closet. My foster dad would tie me up with his leather belt to the garment rod in the closet beneath the stairs and lock me up.”
“Jesus,” he mutters in disbelief. “How long would you . . . ?”
“Every weekend. I’d go in on Friday and come out Sunday. Sometimes I’d be in there during the weeknights. But during the summers, it was constant. I’d be in there three to five days at a time. He’d let me out long enough to go down in the basement, but then he’d tie me back up and lock the door again.”
I feel numb when I tell him this, caging off the emotions I fear. The horror splayed across his face is hard to look at, so I keep my head down, but he picks it up. Moving closer to me, with his hands on my cheeks, he angles me to look up at him. My jaw is locked tight while I continue to hold myself together.
“Why?” he scolds harshly as he holds me in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell someone? Why did you let that happen to you?”
His words rankle my nerves, but instead of blowing up at him in a rage, I narrow my eyes, and seethe, “You don’t know shit. You had a home, you had a family, you were safe. So don’t you dare sit here and question my actions. You don’t know fear like I do. I may be fucked in the head, but one thing I do know for sure . . . I didn’t let those things happen to me. What happened wasn’t my fault, so fuck you for blaming me.”
I jerk away from him and stand up, but he’s quick when he meets my moves and grabs my arm. He pulls me back to him, and when I try yanking out from his hold, he tightens his grip.
“Let go of me!” I yell, but he says nothing as I struggle my arm free. I don’t wait another second and start walking down the hill away from him. I don’t expect anyone to understand my childhood, but to think a little girl would allow someone to debase her like I was is fucking crazy.
“I’m sorry,” his voice hollers down to me, but I keep walking. “Elizabeth, stop!”
I do. I instantly stop the moment I hear his voice break. When I turn to look up at him through the trees, I exhaust in a softer tone, “I was just a little kid.”
With hurried steps, he makes his way down, and when he’s standing before me, he says, “I’m sorry. My words came out wrong. I’m just angry.” He grabs on to me. “I’m so fucking angry when you tell me these things. I feel helpless.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to take it away from you. Because somewhere inside my hate for you, a part of me still cares.”
Staring up at him, I know better than to leech on to the goodness and hope of what he just said, so I ask, “Which one is it? Do you care more than you hate?”
I watch the tension strain through his eyes, and a moment passes before he answers, “No.”
His honesty burns and sinks down inside of me. I question why I’m even here if he hates me so much. I feel like a game to him, but I don’t even know what he’s gaining from playing with me like this.
Shrugging out of his hold, I take a couple steps back from him before demanding, “Take me back to Isla’s.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question, Declan. I’m leaving,” I tell him and then turn my back and rush towards the house, fuming mad.
I move quickly, doing my best to avoid ice patches, when I hear his heavy footsteps behind me. Looking over my shoulder, he’s moving fast, but I’m too angry to face him right now, so I pick up my pace and start running from him.