My sundress wasn’t warm enough against the station’s vapid air-conditioning, and somewhere along the line, someone had given me a cosy knitted cream jumper that acted as a hug as I huddled deeper and deeper into my chair.
I’d been fed, showered, given a new pair of shoes, and the bruises on my skin had darkened to a nice mosaic that even Alrik would’ve been proud of.
The first part of the day’s questioning hadn’t been easy because I honestly had no answers.
Where had I been kept?
How had I been taken there?
Where was the place where I was sold?
All I could tell them was my cell had been a white mansion on a hill, I’d been taken by private plane, and I’d been sold to men with paper mache masks at an event called the QMB.
Other questions were dangerously personal.
Who had saved me and where had they gone?
Why hadn’t I contacted my mother the moment I was free?
Who had sewed up my tongue after what had happened to me?
Those, I hedged.
I refused to answer with the truth and instead gave half-starts and nonsense-rambles.
I didn’t mention Elder’s name once.
There was no way I would get him into trouble—especially after everything he’d done for me. I merely told them a good Samaritan with money had found me, taken me from my master, and paid for my medical upkeep.
I definitely didn’t tell them about pulling the trigger and shooting Alrik or the god-awful sound of Darryl’s neck snapping in Elder’s strong hands.
Those were secrets for a reason, and I protected them with all my might.
Just like the unmentionable that I was no longer able to have a son or daughter.
Other questions I threw myself wholeheartedly into.
What was my mother’s name?
Her date of birth?
Anything I could give them to find her faster?
By afternoon, a Caesar salad was delivered, and I was left alone to eat while my answers were undoubtedly processed in their system.
I expected more of the same after eating, but Carlyn arrived, sombre and strained. The usual sweetness on her face had been replaced with stark tension.
Wait...what’s happened?
I shifted in my chair, pulling my jumper tight around me.
Her eyes pinched as she sat in the chair in front of me, resting the file she carried on the table. “Hello, Tasmin.”
I jolted.
Partly from that name still not belonging to me and mostly because her tone filled me with dread. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
For an insane moment, I wished she’d call me Pim.
I hated the name Pimlico for so many reasons, but I felt more in tune with that girl than this new imposter pretending to be Tasmin. I needed to find some courage even if it came from false places. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Officer Grey spread slightly trembling fingers over the file. “I have some news.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the logo on the top of the paperwork followed by a grainy photo of a woman I didn’t think I’d ever see again.
My mother.
Shakes took hold of me with a cruelty I couldn’t deny. I wanted to demand she tell me everything, but once again, muteness became my shield.
My throat closed up.
My eyes blurred.
My heart galloped.
What is it?
Tell me!
She patted the file. “Do you know anything about your mother? Since you last saw her the night of her charity gala?”
I shook my head, unable to unglue my eyes from that tiny grainy photograph.
Mum...
Carlyn’s shoulders slouched a little, condolences already filling her gaze.
I stiffened.
I couldn’t hold back the question. “Is...is she dead?” Numbness followed on the syllable of that awful, awful question, already protecting me from the answer.
If she was dead, I was truly alone. If she was dead...how did that make me feel? I loved her because she was my mother. But I didn’t necessarily like her. But at the same time, she represented my future, my past, and my one chance at finding somewhere safe to recover without relying on Elder or his magical floating palace called the Phantom.
Carlyn gave me half a smile. “No, she’s not dead.”
My lungs stopped working. Wasn’t that good news? Why did she sit there almost afraid to tell me the rest? When neither of us spoke, she murmured, “Something...happened when you were taken.”
My mind raced ahead, trying to figure out what she was about to say.
What happened? What could my mother have been capable of—
A blizzard howled down my spine.
I sucked in a harsh breath.
No.
It’s not possible.
All this time, I’d hoped my snatching was an opportunist deviant who spied a na?ve little girl and saw dollar signs instead of a human life. But what if my mother—in all her studies and work with paedophiles and criminals—had somehow embraced the darker part of her psyche?
What if she’d sold me as an experiment?
What if she’d given me up to a monster to study my survival from afar?
The idea was preposterous and far too farfetched, but it didn’t stop the concept from morphing into a terrible nightmare of her using me as a guinea pig on how a white girl with a middle-class upbringing could survive rape and torture and mind games.
How much I could endure before I broke...
“...I’m so sorry, Tasmin.”
I looked up, shocked to find Carlyn had spoken—had delivered the truth—and I hadn’t paid attention. Fear that she wouldn’t repeat the news had me throwing myself forward, grabbing her hands with mine. “What did you say?”
She frowned at where I touched her but didn’t reprimand. “I said I’m sorry that you’ll be alone. That your family apartment was sold, your furniture auctioned off, and your childhood dismantled because of what your mother did.”
The shakes were back a thousand times worse. “And what did my mother do?”
She blanched a little before pushing the paperwork toward me. “See for yourself.” She lowered her voice. “A crime is a crime, and I will never be sympathetic to those paying for what they’ve done, but the woman in me understands why your mother did what she did. After meeting you, I can see why.”
See why what?
My fingers scrambled at the paper, tugging it close and smoothing out the curled-up corners. My mother’s photo was over-exposed and pixelated, but one proper look showed me everything I needed to.
It was a mug shot.
The board in front of her stated the date of her arrest, her height, weight, and date of birth.
Her face, so similar to mine with its button nose, high cheekbones, and wide eyes, was harsh and almost proud. She didn’t stare into the camera as a criminal—hunched with remorse and pissed at what her future held.
Hell, no.
She stared victorious and vindictive as if daring the photographer to take away her accomplishments.
Why was she arrested?
What did she do?
In no universe could I understand my mother throwing away her career. She worked in the prisons out of sick professional curiosity on what made rapists and murderers tick, but she always returned home at night. She’d go stir-crazy locked up with the same people she studied like rats in an experiment.
My eyes reluctantly left her photo, my fingers drifting to her face as if needing to keep contact even while I read the brief report.
Prisoner: 890776E
Name: Sonya Blythe