p bitch. You are one
bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one
fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop.
Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.
I ha一ve my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The
sound stops.
He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the
kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.
He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of
cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in
sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits
bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck.
They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deep
steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the
smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
I ha一ve survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day
at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has
flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack
Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue
eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.
“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a
great team.”
Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a
semblance of a smile.
“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.
“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, Ana.”
Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head for
the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a
deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a
void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful
hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop
with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating
being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . or
the Audi.
I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t
think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice,
new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his
payment, and the thought lea一ves a bitter taste in my mouth,
but I dismiss it and try to keep my
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