She began to tremble. Because she already knew that excuses wouldn’t work. They’d only make him madder. There was a whisper at the base of her skull. Stay strong. Smart. The next words formed without conscious thought. “But you’re right. I can do better. I will do better tomorrow. Thank you for reminding me. We have to be made aware of our failures in order to improve, right?” That had been one of Tami Jae’s sayings. She’d had a million of them when it came to critiquing her students’ dancing.
“That’s correct.” Was there a note of surprise in his words? “And very mature, Whitney. We all need to be open to criticism, especially when learning something new. But it’s not enough to say you’ll do better; you have to make a plan. What will be different about tomorrow?”
Sensing the trap in the question, she felt her way carefully. “I’ll have to focus more intently. And I can do that by emptying my mind and feeling the music.” Whoever would have believed that all Tami Jae’s bullshit would come in handy?
“And what was distracting you today?”
“I miss my family.”
“And you will for a time.”
For a time? For a time? Anger elbowed aside fear. Was this freak for real? Like after a while, she’d just forget her dad and mom and brother? Erase them from her heart the way he tried to erase them from her mind? Sometimes she was almost convinced that he was lying about their deaths.
Today hadn’t been one of those days.
“We all have obstacles in our paths. Character is the way we choose to get over them. I lost my sister, Margaret, when I was just a few years older than you. It was very, very difficult. My mother never got over it. You might say it contributed to her breakdown a couple years later. So you need to decide now, Whitney. Are you going to let this hardship defeat you? Or are you going to rise above it?”
Her jaw clenched. “It won’t defeat me.” He wouldn’t defeat her. She wouldn’t let him win.
“That’s an excellent sentiment. Tomorrow we’ll see how well you do following through on it. Now, take off your leotard. Turn and face the wall.”
Her bones went to water. “I’m sorry about my effort. Tomorrow will be better. I promise.” Her muscles were already quivering in anticipation of what was to come.
“For your sake, I hope that’s true. But failing at something is not the worst thing you can do, Whitney. It’s letting people down. That requires a consequence. By breaking rule six today, you disappointed me greatly. Not following my instruction will break another rule and disappoint me even further.”
That had her rising, but her knees buckled, and she nearly fell. Her hands were shaking so hard, it was difficult to undo the Velcro on the sleeve of the leotard. Drag it off her shoulders. Push the garment down her legs. She turned and bent to a crouch, her body tensing in anticipation. He won’t win, she vowed. He won’t he won’t he won’t.
The whip snapped, shattering her inner resolve. An instant later it cut into her flesh. Her scream echoed and rocketed about the room. The pain was a shredding agony. But it was mixed this time with a red-hot pulse of rage.
Her eyes burned as she stared into the darkness. Her punishment hadn’t been complete without the loss of TV privileges, too. A bitter laugh escaped her. As if not being able to watch a child’s show was any match for being whipped.
She could feel the stickiness on her back. Knew the lash mark was oozing again. It would stick to the thick flannel nightgown she wore. Once a week she was instructed to leave her clothes at the edge of the stage to be laundered. Yesterday morning when she’d retrieved them, the nightdress had been with them. The garment was old-fashioned, and not new. The fabric was pilled from wear and frequent washings. She’d dutifully thanked her captor for it, even though it looked like something people wore a century ago. She’d even planned to ask for a blanket the next time she earned a privilege.
That was before she’d been reminded that the tiniest infraction led to a vicious result.
Anger and resentment were frothing inside her, diluting even the grief that had risen and ebbed in waves since he’d told her about her family. She’d spent the last few nights continuing her search of the rest of the stage floor, hoping to find another loose board. One would be useless against him, but two or three would make a club. So far she’d failed, and that failure had whittled away at her determination. If there were a way out of here, wouldn’t Kelsey Willard have found it?
The girl that had been here before her might be dead now. The possibility had terrified Whitney for days. Made it difficult to hang on to a slender thread of hope.
But that was a coward’s thinking. The throb of fury kept beat with the ache in her back. She had to be brave enough to face whatever else might be on those papers, because there might be something there that would help her get into the freak’s head so she could beat him at his own game.
Something that might help her escape.
The thought tantalized her. Maybe Kelsey Willard had gotten away, and the papers would tell Whitney how she could, too. Her throat dried out. Or maybe it would tell her worse things . . . things she didn’t want to know. Details that would make it harder for her to concentrate on staying strong. Beating the freak.
The mental tug-of-war hadn’t stopped since she’d replaced those papers. Had nibbled at her thoughts even during her nightly search of the floorboards. The lashing she’d gotten today had solved her dilemma. Whatever she might discover in those pages, it had to be better than cowering in her bed, awash in pain and humiliation. That was letting him win.
Mind made up, Whitney threw off the thin cover and carefully got off the mattress, her gaze on the sliver of light hemming the curtain at the window high on the wall at the far end of the stage. The floorboards were cold beneath her feet as she scurried to the shower stall. After a sharp intake of breath from the pain, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and searched blindly for the screw on the floor. Some opportunities she was forced to earn. Others she’d take.
Her fingers closed around the screw, and she tiptoed back to the mattress. She probably didn’t have to worry about being quiet. She’d figured out that he watched her somehow when the computer was on. He had to have fixed it so it streamed the old dance films and dumb-ass Nickelodeon channel through the projector. There must be some sort of camera app open on it because he’d known when she’d taken a nap that time. The memory had a shiver chasing down her spine.
She’d made a point of studying her prison while she stretched before dancing. There were no wires to be seen. No telltale red lights that suggested a hidden camera. And why would he bother? The chain attaching her wrist to the metal barre was inescapable.
Breath hitching at the thought, she carefully lowered herself to all fours, running her fingers over the floorboards. If he had some way to watch her here without the computer turned on, he’d have punished her again for her discovery a few nights ago. But he hadn’t. Which meant he didn’t know.
She found the rough edge of the board she’d pried up before and hesitated. It hadn’t just been fear of her captor that had her rolling the papers up and jamming them back into their hiding place that first night. Whitney hadn’t wanted to read more.