But none of those things mattered here. No one knew Livia was good at anything, and they wouldn’t have cared even if they did.
Her only refuge was homework. It was hard when the teachers were talking—there was so much she would miss. But when she was studying, she was in control. When she didn’t know a word, she could look it up. If a problem was difficult, she could do it again and again until she had it right. And she was good at memorizing things. It was almost as though studying enabled her to slow down the world, to pick out of the air things that would otherwise fly past, and hold and examine and incorporate them. She needed to study—not just because of how isolated she felt at school, but because of how powerless she was in the Lone house.
A few times, Mr. Lone’s brother Ezra, the senator, came from Washington to visit. He was tall and bald like Mr. Lone and had the same wide-set eyes, but whereas Mr. Lone was stocky, Senator Lone was trim and fit-looking. When Mr. Lone introduced them, Senator Lone stooped and shook her hand. “I am so delighted to meet you, young lady,” he said. “I’ve heard your progress has been remarkable. Under any circumstances, but especially following an ordeal like yours.”
She had to consciously keep from wrinkling her nose in disgust at the mention of her “ordeal.” And he sounded like his brother—another mark against him.
“Thank you, Senator,” she said, having been coached by Mr. Lone to call him that. “It’s very nice to meet you, too.” It wasn’t hard to say. She was getting good at lying, at saying the right words so other people couldn’t know what she was really thinking.
She glanced over at a man standing behind and slightly to the right of the senator. The man was watching her with an odd expression—both intense and dispassionate, as though she was an exotic bug he had pulled from under a log in the jungle and was now examining with detached fascination. The way he was standing, she sensed he was with the senator, though in what capacity she didn’t know. He was short, but heavily muscled, with a neck that looked as thick as a thigh and ears that protruded from beneath a blond crew cut. He was wearing a suit, but didn’t seem comfortable in it the way Mr. Lone and the senator seemed in theirs. For some reason, even though he didn’t have a uniform or a gun, he reminded her of the Thai soldiers who sometimes passed by the hill tribe villages looking for opium growers.
Senator Lone glanced back. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my legislative aide, Matthias Redcroft. Matthias is the unsung hero behind all my legislative accomplishments—my right-hand man. Matthias, this is Livia, my new niece.”
Matthias smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, Livia.”
Although they looked nothing alike, when the man smiled he reminded Livia so much of Skull Face that a wave of nausea coursed through her. She shook his hand and managed to stammer out, “It’s nice to meet you.” And then she excused herself to go to the bathroom, where she washed her hands with the hottest water she could stand.
Twice a week, when Mrs. Lone was out with her bridge club, Mr. Lone would come into Livia’s room. If she was already in the bathroom, it would start there. If she was studying on her bed, she would walk to the bathroom ahead of him. There was something about the bathroom he seemed to like. She would undress as though getting ready to shower, and he would open his pants and watch her while he touched himself. It was important to him that she look at his face the whole time. He would say the same strange things to her—trust was so important, and he would never hurt her, but he was taking care of her and she owed him this much and really it was only a little considering how generous he had been and how he had brought her into his house and under his protection and made her his daughter—while he touched himself faster and faster. And then his face would contort and he would moan, and the slime would come out and spill to the tiled floor. Then he would sag against the sink, panting, while Livia balled up toilet paper, wiped up the slime, and flushed it down the toilet. Then he would close his pants and tell her he was so glad they trusted each other the way they did, that she was obeying him the way she did, the way she should. And that Nason was all right, and he was doing all he could.
She still didn’t know whether to believe him about Nason. But she was afraid of what she might do if she thought he was lying. She might just despair—stop eating, stop drinking, stop caring about anything. Or she might take a knife from the kitchen and hide it in the bathroom and stab it into his belly again and again while he was opening up his pants. And then use it on herself.