Chapter 3: Out of the Dark

3

For the first time in five years, I was taken out of the dark basement.

The instant sunlight hit me, I panicked like a rat, screaming and trying to run away.

Marcus grabbed me, dragging me into the house.

The house reeked of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. The living room was all leather couches and a giant flat-screen blaring daytime TV.

On the spacious leather sofa sat several women, heavily made up.

"Mr. Delaney..." They rose to greet him. One even came up and kissed him.

Right in front of me, Marcus kissed her back, lingering passionately.

"Tanya, take her upstairs for a bath. Clean her up," he said to the woman.

Tanya glanced at me sideways. "Let’s go, sweetheart. Don’t make this harder than it has to be."

She and the other women spent the whole afternoon scrubbing filth and fleas from my body.

Hot water poured over my wasted frame. My ribs jutted out; I looked like a dried-up corpse. The steam fogged the mirror, blurring my reflection until I barely recognized the haunted eyes staring back.

Five years gone. The once beautiful, spirited detective Lillian Hayes had become a walking ghost.

Tanya combed my hair, her tone soft. "Don’t get any ideas. Marcus isn’t who he used to be. If you want to live another day, just behave."

"Tanya, you can leave." Marcus appeared at the door.

Tanya shot me a warning look and left.

Marcus stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. His long, slender fingers traced my temples, neck, collarbone, slipped into my collar, and slid slowly downward.

I frowned, unable to hide my revulsion any longer.

He stopped.

Suddenly, he grabbed my hair, forcing my head up.

"Look at you now—who’d want to see you naked?" he spat.

"Daddy!" A little girl’s voice sounded at the door.

Marcus paused, letting go of my hair.

"Daddy, you finally brought Mommy out!" The little girl ran over, gazing up at me, carefully studying my face. "Mommy is really pretty, just too skinny. Mommy needs to eat more."

She tugged at my sleeve and offered me a gummy bear from her pocket, sticky and warm.

I looked at her, my eyes growing misty.

Is this my child? Is she really my child?

"Chloe, tonight Daddy will take you and Mommy out for steak, okay?" Marcus said.

"Yay!" Chloe jumped and laughed.

I didn’t know how, in this den of monsters, she’d grown up so innocent and lively. On the way to the restaurant, she kept laughing, fascinated by everything outside the car window.

Marcus spoke to her gently, none of his usual harshness in sight.

Watching this father and daughter, my thoughts drifted back more than twenty years.

That year, I was five.

The house always smelled like Pine-Sol and burnt toast. I watched Chloe—her tiny hands pressed against the window, eyes wide at a world she seemed hungry to know. Did she get bedtime stories? Did she ever chase fireflies in the backyard or roast marshmallows over a campfire? The kind of American childhood every kid deserved, but I’d never know if she’d had. My heart ached, a strange mix of longing and dread.