“There are maps through your bones and skin,
to the way you’ve felt and the way you’ve been.”
—Christopher Poindexter
“I pity you like I pity the Devil.”
My bones quiver, and the shackles slip against my sweaty wrists. It’s not enough to drown out Mama’s distant, throaty voice.
“You’ll suffer for conjuring his demons, little girl.”
I close my eyes, squeeze them hard, and shake my head. Get out, Mama. You don’t belong here.
“I’ll make it end. But only once your soul has been cleansed.”
Two hours. The grandfather clock across the room tells me I have been hanging from these chains for two long hours.
“You behave like an animal, and you’ll be treated like one.”
My knees knock together, a tremble running through them. I’m lightheaded and drenched in sweat, and I haven’t seen or heard a thing since Raife’s suit-clad back as he walked away. Not until that memory, now twelve years old, found its way back to me. Still echoing in my ears, it won’t leave me alone.
“But Mama, I—”
“Don’t you dare call me that.”
Teeth chattering against the harsh wind, I tried again. “I’m s-sorry, Agnes. I just—”
“Look at it.” Mama only ever spoke in whispers and snarls, yet her hushed commands struck me with more intensity than if she had raised her voice.
I shifted my feet, feeling my toes sink deeper into the fresh mud. Then I lowered my gaze to the painting that sat on the ground between us. Streaked with runny lines of red and black, paint blended together as the rain splattered my sketchpad.
“Face your twisted demons like you force me to,” she ordered, “because this will be the last time you ever summon them in this house.”
“But I’m telling you, Ma—Agnes. I didn’t summon any—”
Mama’s hand rose so quickly I flinched. She froze mid-air, fingers inches from my cheek, seeming to remember at the same time I did that she never hit me. She never touched me at all. I once overheard her tell Frankie to keep her distance because I could be contagious.
After a tense moment of silence blending with rain patter, Mama lowered her hand to her side. I knew better than to talk back. I did. But this was the most she had spoken to me in seven months, and my heart had filled itself with a silly fluttering sensation that felt a lot like hope.
Hope that maybe she’d listen.
Maybe she’d try to understand that the dark images muddled my brain until it hurt, until I had no choice but to let them out.
That maybe one day she’d look at me like she did Frankie. Not like she loved her—I didn’t know if Mama was capable of such an emotion—but even when she was disappointed in my big sister, even when she punished us, Mama looked at her with a spark I couldn’t place. A spark that I reminded myself would never flicker for me.
I admit, I didn’t make it easy for her. Frankie has always looked just like her, with their blond hair and brown eyes. And from the broken and confusing way my brain works, I was beginning to wonder if Daddy passed down much more than just his looks to me.
“Are you an animal, Emmy May?”
I sniffed and shook my head. “No, Agnes.”
“Are you rabid? Are you a stray? Have you not been cared for like a proper child under a roof protected by the Lord?”
“No, Agnes. I’ve been cared for well.”
“Then take a good, hard look at yourself and ask what kind of person would think up such horrors?”
I dropped my head, feeling a sob working its way up my throat. “I don’t know, Mama. A bad person?”
She took a step forward and walked around me to the abandoned doghouse. “I’ll tell you who,” she said calmly. “A child of the devil. A tainted beast. And as such”—I gasped when something cold and hard tightened around my neck—“you will be punished.”
Reaching up with shaky fingers, I touched the rusty collar now locked around my throat, then my gaze followed the thick metal to the doghouse where it was secured through a hole in the roof. I felt every drop of blood drain from my face.
“Let us see if your art”—she spat the word—“can save you now.”
At the time, those were the most words she’d spoken to me in seven months. After that night, they became the most she’d said since. I suppose it was easier to pretend I didn’t exist than it was to exorcise my demons.
Now, as the unfamiliar chains cut into my wrists and the balls of my feet tingle with soreness, I recall that being neglected is a hell of a lot easier on me, too.
A brisk click of heels snaps my head toward the open doorway. A blond secretary blurs past as she proceeds down the hall. “Wait!” My voice is hoarse as it cracks the walls of my dry throat. “P-please. Come back.”
The clicks pause, then resume, coming closer this time. The secretary that appears in the doorway is familiar. I squint and realize she’d been setting roses on one of the tables yesterday.
I glance down at her dark red scarf. The color is identical to the handkerchief Griff keeps in his front pocket.
Just perfect.
“Did you call for me?” She tilts her head and furrows her brows, but otherwise shows no reaction at the sight of me chained naked to the chandelier, fire still flickering at my feet. Just another day at the Matthews residence.
I tug at the chains and wince when they rub against the raw skin. “Can you get me down from here?”
Her eyes drop to my gold scarf, then flick back up to my face. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Only your master can make that decision.” After a pause, she asks, “Would you like a glass of water?”
I bite back a growl. Every inch of my body throbs, whimpering with exhaustion. My head drops to my chest. The thick pressure in my throat screams for me to take her up on her offer, but I won’t. I’m helpless enough as it is without someone having to spoon-feed me.
A second passes, then her footsteps fade toward the exit. My gaze slides down, down, to the orange flames that dance with a vibrancy I envy. Melted wax drizzles down the sides of the candles like teardrops.
I lose track of the seconds, minutes, hours. Stop fighting the soreness crippling my muscles, the numbness overtaking my fingers.
The longer I stare into the hypnotizing candlelight, the heavier my eyelids get. My wrists go slack against the handcuffs, my knees buckle, and I think I hear the padded thump of a candle falling against the tablecloth, inhale the bitter scent of something burning. But the sea of black curling around my mind is so soothing, I can’t bring myself to care.
Voices—hushed and feminine—travel to my eardrums. Something soft brushes my ankle. I stir, shift in place, and a searing pain pierces my wrists. Beyond my wrists, to the tips of my fingers, I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. The faint sound of metal clinking reminds me I’m chained. A moan seeps past my closed lips.
My eyelashes flutter open, and the dining room blurs into focus.
Aubrey’s hair tickles my bare foot, and I cringe at the sting that shoots to my toes. Her grip stiffens around my ankle, keeping it still. She glances up at me and presses a finger to her lips, then resumes wrapping a gauze bandage around my foot. My brows pull together, a sting still throbbing beneath my skin.
The blond secretary from earlier comes into view as she rounds the table. She carefully gathers what’s left of the tablecloth and dumps it into a trash bag. No candles are in sight, but a faint singed scent wafts through the air.
Raife sits in the far-right corner of the room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. His lips move as he speaks too low for me to hear, but his eyes linger on the white bandage at my feet. Eventually, he sees me looking at him.
He smiles.
My stomach rolls.
He adjusts his phone, then looks away as he continues speaking. I’m still watching him. My new ‘master.’ When I boarded the plane to New York, I was certain my employers-to-be wanted sex, and they wanted it on their terms, behind closed doors.
Dress me up, give me a to-do list and roses to set on your tables—it’s still sex. Not an easy task, but a simple one.
So why does it feel like they want something else entirely from me?