Liberty At Last (The Liberty Series) (2 page)

I could see light through my window. Bright, warm sunlight. I reached my hand up and held it into the brightness; my skin was illuminated and the small patch of warmth felt amazing.
How long has it been since I’ve seen the sun?
I wondered.
One week? Two?
I’d lost count.

I was losing other things, too. Weight, for one. I ran my hands down my torso, covered by the ratty remnants of my tee shirt. I could easily count my ribs. My stomach snarled viciously as I tried not to think about my hunger; I was pretty sure I would be having lukewarm chicken broth for dinner again, hours from now.

I was also pretty sure I was losing my mind. I was hearing things.

It was John’s voice. When I was alone, lying on my dirty cot, his voice came to me.
Liberty,
he called, in a soothing tone.
Liberty, I still love you. Honey, I’m coming for you…

Tears would spill down my face when I imagined his voice. It made my broken heart ache in a way I hadn’t thought it capable of anymore. I hoped it was true: I hoped he was coming for me. But at the same time I feared for him. He wouldn’t want to see this, see what had happened, see who my captors were. It would ruin him.

I sat up on the thin cot and surveyed the room. Cool, damp dirt floor. I could tell that I was below ground, not only because of the dampness, but because the one small window I had was up so high it was above my head; I could barely make out the grounds past the iron bars. There was a chair and on the floor, a metal bowl filled with dirty water. That was how I was keeping myself clean, if you wanted to call it that. There was also what appeared to be a toilet in the far corner; I had realized early on it was like an in-house version of an outhouse—and after throwing up in my mouth at the realization, I tried to avoid looking at it or thinking about it unless absolutely necessary.

To say that things hadn’t worked out as I’d planned…that may be the understatement of a lifetime.

As if cue, there was a rapping at the door. “Liberty,” a female voice called, too brightly, “It’s me. It’s time.” She opened the door and a shiver raced down my spine. She swept into my cell, followed by a guard with a machine gun. A mixture of fear and hatred coursed through me.

Her eyes, clear and blue, were so much like his. I kept finding myself staring at them, mesmerized, remembering what it was like to look into John’s eyes. But
her
eyes were only an echo of his. A mirage. It made my stomach twist every time I realized the difference: his eyes were filled with so much goodness, so much light. But her’s weren’t like that. They were flat, undecipherable. Like she was hiding so many things that the secrets were literally up to her eyeballs, crowding out any glimpse of a soul.

She pulled her long, glossy braid against her shoulder, stroking it and caressing it like it was a loyal pet. Her hair was light brown, thick and luxurious, shot through with flecks of blond. She smiled at me as she entered, her lightly tanned skin emphasizing her perfectly straight, whitened teeth. The smile didn’t reach those eyes.

She looked the opposite of what I felt. She was stunningly beautiful, put together, clean, and in control. Every time I saw her she was well-dressed, as if for an event.

I was pretty sure that
I
was the event.

Today she wore dewy foundation, blush, brick-colored lipstick and a ladylike pencil skirt with patent leather high heels. She was only a little older than me, but she seemed poised well beyond her years. I wondered if she’d always been like that, with perfect posture, perfect makeup, impeccably dressed. But with her lipstick and braid and fake smile and whitened teeth, she was ridiculously out of place in the dankness of my cell. I was in a filthy tee shirt and hadn’t washed my hair in weeks. By comparison, her shiny splendor was garish. We were in a prison. Since I’d been here, I’d heard people being tortured, being shot.

Still, I couldn’t stop staring at her.

Her father would be so ashamed.

It’s not her fault,
my inner voice said, stubbornly. Part of me — a rapidly shrinking part — felt sorry for her.
She had been a prisoner, and now…she’s just gone crazy, I guess. You can’t blame her. It’s been years. And it’s…him. He’s done this to her. Changed her.

Another shiver rolled down my spine at the mention of
him.
I’d only met him once, and once was enough. He hadn’t said much; he’d just come into my cell with his guards and stood, staring at me with his cloudy eyes. It was as if he were cataloging me. I hadn’t seen him since, but I felt like he’d decided to give me to her as a present. A present she was enjoying way, way too much.

Catherine. Oh Catherine, what happened to you?

She lit a cigarette and sat across from me in the one metal chair the room boasted. The smoke made me nauseous, but I was grateful for it: being nauseous was at least a break from being hungry.

“It’s time,” she said, smiling again through the haze of smoke. Her smile made my skin break out in goosebumps; whenever I saw that smile, it was a twisted reminder of her father.

“I’ve been looking forward to this. I keep making bets with myself that we’re going to get somewhere today.” Her legs were crossed and she was bouncing her knees, anxiously, her patent-leather pump going up and down, up and down. My stomach dropped. I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by “get somewhere.”

The ember of her cigarette winked in the dimness of the room. Ray had smoked. I’d always hated smokers. Clearly, that wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

“Time for our Q and A session. You ready?” she asked. I nodded. I had gotten used to this; she’d done the same thing the last couple of days. I’d told her some things, but she wanted more. She wanted the things I was trying to hide.

“So: You’re originally from Oregon, but you most recently lived in Las Vegas,” she said, briskly.

“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded tired and weak to my own ears.

“And you worked in adult entertainment when you were in Vegas.”

“I was a stripper,” I said.

“Why did you come to Mexico?” She’d asked me this every single time.

“I was looking for someone.”

“Who were you looking for?”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

She paused, shifting in her seat, and took another drag off her cigarette. “That’s ridiculous. Answer the question,” she said quickly, flatly. Her knee continued bouncing up and down. “Tell the truth today. Tell the truth or you’re going to be sorry.”

My heart was pounding and my stomach was in knots. She was tense, angry. I hadn’t seen her like this before. But I’d be damned before I’d tell her what she wanted to hear.

“I am telling the truth,” I said, stubbornly.

“Again, that’s ridiculous, Liberty. And I’m officially done fucking around,” she said. She gave me a hard look. My stomach clenched. I hadn’t seen her angry and I’d never heard her curse.

She stopped bouncing her knee and uncrossed her legs. She scooted her chair over so she was close to me and then she grabbed my forearm, hard.

“Now, tell me the truth.” She yanked my arm out and held it painfully across my knee. She was surprisingly strong; I struggled, trying to move away, but she held me firmly in place.

“I don’t remember,” I said. I still had enough belligerence left in me to sound sarcastic.

She took the cigarette out of her mouth and held it over the inside of my forearm. I could feel it, close, burning hot.
Oh, Catherine.

“Tell me the truth,” she said.

“I did,” I said, looking her in the eye.
Fuck you
, I thought.
Just wait until the tables are turned and I get my hands on you.

She pressed the cigarette down, scalding my flesh — I could hear my skin sizzling as she burnt through layers of it. I had a new thought:
Fuck me.
I heard myself scream.

So this is what it feels like to be tortured by a member of the Quinn family,
I thought. My arm hurt so badly that I started crying, hard.

She looked up at me as she pulled the cigarette off, and through my tears I realized she was wearing black liquid eyeliner and mascara on her top and bottom lashes. It was probably nine o’clock in the morning.
Whore,
I thought, crying some more. Back at the Treasure Chest, I’d known some girls who had sex for money. But that was nothing compared to what Catherine was doing for her patent leather pumps and liquid eyeliner. She was completely debasing herself.
If your father ever gets his hands on you
, I thought,
but really, I didn’t know what he would do.

Let me have a crack at her,
my inner voice suggested.
I could figure something out real quick.

It was all too terrible. He wouldn’t know
what
to do, with any of this. Maybe it would be better if I never got free, never had the chance to tell him.

She released me, and sitting back, regarded me again. “Now,” she said, sticking the cigarette back in her mouth and taking a deep drag, “tell me who you were looking for.”

After two days, I had raw, oozing scabs up and down my arm. Every time I heard her heels click down the hallway, I started to shake.

I just wanted it to stop. Everything.

John had told me once that I was brave. He should see me now,
I thought.
He would see how quickly I’d crumbled.
I just couldn’t handle the pain. I didn’t like having her that close, hurting me, watching her nervous excitement. I couldn’t stand the proximity to those eyes. They were familiar but so different, a mockery of what I held dear.

On the second day I just started babbling. Catherine had come in and found me curled up in a ball on my cot. She’d made me sit up, put my feet on the floor, and hand over my arm.

“Tell me who you were looking for,” she’d commanded again. This time, the ember of her cigarette was hovering over the inside of my elbow. I winced and tried to pull my arm away. That part of my arm was soft, vulnerable. It was gonna hurt like hell.

I can’t do this anymore,
I thought.
I’m too weak.
I hoped what I was going to tell her, which was mostly the truth, wasn’t going to hurt anyone else. Because if it did, I would never, ever, forgive myself.

“You,” I said softly, mentally waving a white flag at her.
Please. Please stop
.

“I was looking for you.”

Please don’t make me burn like that again. Not ever again.

“Ah, she decides to be honest,” she said, sounding satisfied, and let my arm go. She leaned back in the chair, smoking and looking at me.

I really hope her lungs fall out from all that smoking.

“Good girl, Liberty,” she said, approvingly, as if she were at least a decade older than me. “You’re smart. It took me a lot longer than you to cooperate, and it caused so much unnecessary pain. For everyone.” She exhaled and looked thoughtfully through the cloud of smoke at the door.

“How long has it been since you’ve been outside? Two weeks?”

I shrugged at her wordlessly.
I have no idea,
I thought.
I’m only keeping track of time with my heart…the time I’ve been apart from John is the only time that’s real to me now. So everything seems like absolutely fucking forever ago.

Everything
was
forever ago, because I was gone down here, lost. And I didn’t know if he was ever going to be able to find me, or if I really wanted him to, given the circumstances. It would break his heart. I was a fool to have done this. I remembered one night at the beach, when John had held me on his lap…

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ I said, softly. ‘For a long, long time. You make it okay. You make everything okay.’ A huge smile broke out over his face, brilliant like the sun. He kissed me then, tenderly, and I felt a tear stream down my face. I wiped it away. I was safe now, finally. Nothing was going to hurt me anymore, unless I let it.

Unless I let it.