“I can’t do it, Will. My feet hurt. My legs. My whole body.” The tears were really falling now, multiple little tracks bisecting each other on her dirty face as the sobs started to rack her shoulders. “I don’t want to go on. I can’t. I can’t do this.”
I went to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. Not too rough, though. I didn’t want to make things worse. But she needed to get on board with the plan. “Come on. Don’t give up on me now. You can do this.”
She cracked open her eyes and peered up at me. “Tell me the truth. How far is the police station?”
I heaved a big sigh and turned my head to stare out at the traffic passing us by. “Almost a mile,” I muttered.
“How many miles have we already walked?” She sniffed and it turned into a hiccup. I hated seeing her cry. It made me feel strange emotions I couldn’t describe and wasn’t comfortable with.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Two? Maybe three?”
“It feels like twenty.” She wavered in my grip, like her legs were about to give out on her, and I shook her again, causing her head to lift so her gaze met mine. “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “You’re strong but I’m not.”
“You’re strong, too.” I slid my hands over her shoulders and pulled her into me, going on pure instinct. I wanted to offer her comfort. I wanted her to feel safe with me and when she went willingly, folding her arms in front of her chest, her forehead landing on my shoulder, it felt . . . good. Her absolute trust in me made me feel like I could do anything for her.
As I slid my arms around her and held her close, I whispered against her hair, “Just a little while longer, Katie. Do it for me, okay?”
She nodded, the barest movement of her head, her body going limp against mine, and I gathered her as close as I could, the sweatshirt bunching between us. I willed some of my strength into her, needing her to pull it together. We were so close and I couldn’t have her give up before we got there.
“Okay,” she whispered, turning her head as she spoke, and I swore I felt her damp mouth move against my neck. “Just—promise me you’ll walk into the police station with me.”
I stiffened. That was the last thing I wanted to do. “I can’t promise you that.”
Katie lifted her head up to stare at me. “Why not?”
“I have to go back home.” The words sounded lame, but it was the only excuse I had.
She studied me as if she were ready to call bullshit. Not that I could imagine her saying the word. “Go back to what? Him? Your father? Are you going to warn him that you let me go? Then the two of you can go on the run or whatever?”
“Hell no,” I said vehemently. “I’m not telling him shit.”
“Then why go back there? And to what? Your life can’t be that good, can it? He’s a monster, Will.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper, her eyes wide and full of fear. “Does he hurt you?”
I remained stiff, even my lips immobile. I couldn’t admit to her my darkest secrets.
“Does he?” she probed as she disentangled herself from my grip. Like I might be so disgusting she could catch a disease from me if she stood too close. I guessed I deserved that. I’m his son, after all. “Tell me.”
“He doesn’t hurt me,” I mumbled, tearing my gaze from hers so I could stare at the ground. I could feel her watching me, her gaze moving over me from my head to my toes and everywhere in between. I could only imagine her wondering exactly what he did to me. How he hurt me. I hadn’t felt his fists in a while, but he used to smack me where no one would notice. In the ribs, my back, my stomach. When I was nine he had a habit of pinching my inner thighs, twisting the skin until I yelped and cried and screamed, begging him to stop. Leaving ugly purplish bruises there that seemed to fill him with satisfaction when he’d notice them later on.
Those same wounds he used to give me reminded me of the bruises on Katie’s thighs.
“You’re lying.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact, and I felt like a shit for not coming clean. But what could I say? How could I reveal to her what he did to me? What he forced me to do, what he made me watch? I hated it, was ashamed of him and what he did.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I took her hand and tugged on it, indicating that I wanted her to start walking. She did so, reluctantly, the expression on her face nothing short of frustration. Petulant.
“You can’t keep it inside you forever, you know,” she said as we headed down the sidewalk, me maintaining a slow pace so she could keep up. She practically walked on tiptoes, wincing with every step, and I considered picking her up and hauling her in my arms the rest of the way but decided I’d better not.
“Are you my counselor now? What do you know about life? How old are you, anyway?”
She lifted her chin, somehow looking dignified despite the matted hair, tearstained cheeks, purple bruised smudges on either side of her neck, and the giant sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her whole. “Almost thirteen.”