“Maybe that is—”
“Ahem.” Jamie and I stop arguing when I hear someone clear their throat. Glimpsing to the door opening, I see Jess standing against the doorframe, her arms crossed with her eyebrow raised. “Mallory said you were looking for me,” she states, her green eyes going from me to Jamie and then falling back on me, a silent question in them.
“Jamie,” I start, glancing back up at him as I take a step away from his closeness. “This is Doc. She runs the ship here and is the one that helps all the patients recover.”
“Victims,” she clarifies, earning a glare from me. “J doesn’t like the word ‘victim,’” she says, addressing Jamie. “Though, that’s exactly what they are. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Hart?” she asks, letting him know that she knows exactly who he is.
“Yeah, I would.” He nods, agreeing with her, and that makes me roll my eyes. She clearly wants that response for my benefit. “Why doesn’t J like that word?” he asks, directing his question to Jess rather than me, and that irks me.
“Because if she admits to them being victims”—she jerks her head to the other part of the house—”then she has to see herself the same way.”
“But she was,” he says, cocking his head toward me. “You were a victim just like those girls downstairs were too.” His brows furrow.
I never told him what happened to them, but I guess if they’re here, then it doesn’t take a genius to know why. Doesn’t mean I see myself the same. It’s not that I never came to terms with my past; I did. Jess and I will always argue over this, but I’ve grown and changed and I’m not that girl, who yes, was technically a victim. But the thing is, I’m a survivor first and foremost, and that’s what I prefer to think of myself as, and every person that comes out on the other side alive and mentally stable.
“I’m aware of what I am and what I’m not, Jamie,” I say, though I’m staring straight at Jess, silently willing her to hear my words. I know she means well, but she thinks I shut off my feelings too often and don’t see things objectively. She couldn’t be more wrong. She is good with all her other patients, but when it comes to me, it’s almost like she’s on some type of mission to heal me, and in turn, heal herself. I don’t know. Maybe it’s that I’m the one that got Josh to break. Maybe she thinks she owes me when I don’t feel she owes anyone a damn thing.
My cell phone dings with a specific tone, telling me I need to open it immediately. Jessica’s eyes tell me she knows whatever it is it involves a case, so her eyes turn back to Jamie, her head following her eyes. “Mr. Hart, would you care to have a chat with me? I’d like to get to know you, and well, J has some work that needs her undivided attention.”
Jamie eyes me with a cocked brow, silently asking if the Doc is a mind reader.
“Will you go with her? I shouldn’t be long, and when I finish, we’ll talk more. There is more I will give you, Jamie. I promise,” I assure him before turning and striding up to my three computer monitors without waiting for his reply.
The door closes, the latch clicking in place tells me they left, and if I had time, I’d wonder why he didn’t put up a fight. I don’t bother pulling out my cell, I can pull up everything I need from the center computer screen.
Firing it up, it’s a chat message with an unknown source I’ve been communicating with for over a month. I only know him as A_ghost_with_no_soul, his handle on the dark web. In chat is a link. I don’t hesitate clicking on it. It takes me nearly a minute of reading the screen in front of me to realize exactly what information has been tossed into my lap, and when the light comes on . . .
Oh my God.
I stare at the screen in disbelief, knowing Josh has no idea—but how? How is this possible? How does he not know?
Pulling out my cell phone, I send Malachi a text.
Me: Get to the safe house NOW. Bring no one. Tell no one.
I can’t take the chance that he isn’t with Kelly or even Josh. This isn’t information I want either of our other two team members knowing yet. At least not until I talk it through with Mal. He’s my soundboard, the one that doesn’t let his head fill with all the what-ifs like I do. He’s logical and that’s what I need.
Holy shit, though. What if Josh does know and he just never . . .?
No! I scream inside my head at my thoughts. He doesn’t.
Malachi is quick in his reply.
Mal: Be there in five.
Mal: Was already heading that way.
25
— Jamie —
I follow Jessica down to the second floor, where she walks through an open door into a spacious office area. My gaze lands on a desk with a closed laptop and a cell phone neatly placed beside the computer at the back of the room. There are two plush chairs in front of the simple desk. On the side of the room closest to the interior door, there is a full-length sofa with a matching plush chair that makes the office feel warm and inviting. Open French doors are directly behind the desk, even though it’s dark outside, I know they face the Pacific Ocean. The sheer white curtains flutter in the breeze and the scent of the sea permeates around me, reminding me of one of the beauties in living on the west coast.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Hart,” she tells me as she walks away from me and toward the desk that I assume is hers.
“Please call me Jamie,” I tell her, watching as she quickly swipes up her phone, checking the screen before placing it back down.
Taking a seat at one end of the gray sofa, I make myself comfortable as she walks back over to me. The doc sits in the chair adjacent to where I am, only an arm’s length away, a dark colored wooden end table separates the two of us. She crosses her legs and then leans back, making herself comfortable like I did a moment ago. As I take her in, her round eyes land on me. They are a lovely shade of green.
“Doctors work on the weekend?” I ask, though what I’m really wondering is why there doesn’t seem to be security anywhere in sight. I’d think a place like this would have several uniformed officers patrolling, making sure the patients, or residents, or whatever they’re called are safe.
“I’m here every day. All day during the week and at least a couple of hours on the weekends. My husband and daughter are at an MMA event today. Danny must not be in any of the matches tonight if Jen’s here.”
“Danny?” I question. “He fights?”
Is that why that prick stormed in this morning, wondering why he wasn’t at the gym?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you knew since . . . well, you just met him.” Her expression is apologetic. “But yes, Danny sometimes fights in small events. My husband trains him.”
At the mention of her kidnapper, woman beater, maybe even rapist, husband, my blood begins to boil. The calm Jenna had instilled in me earlier is now gone, and in its place is a man that has the urge to do some beating of his own.
“Let me ask you something,” I say, tossing my right leg over my knee and wrapping both of my hands over my calf, squeezing. “How is it you married the man that stole you, beat you, and then sold you to God knows who? How—”
Her stern voice interrupts my question. “Jenna shouldn’t have shared that with you, Jamie.” She isn’t angry per se, but she isn’t happy either.
“I’m going to have to disagree with you on that, seeing as my son is dating that monster’s daughter.” I take a breath, huffing out air. “So, let me ask again.”
“Josh and I aren’t up for discussion,” she says, beating me to the punch. “My relationship with my husband, past and present, is between us and us alone. I know that isn’t what you want to hear as you’re trying to sort out things in your head, but it isn’t something I’m going to bend on. My life is private,” she tells me, her emerald eyes driving home the words that came out of her mouth.
“If you won’t explain anything to me, then how am I supposed to begin to understand any of this? It’s not logical that Jen is okay being around a man that did unspeakable things to her, to you, and to others. I
don’t get it, and I’m not sure I ever will,” I finish.
“You may not, and that may be something you have to accept if you want her and Danny in your life.”
“They’re in my life and will remain in my life whether I accept that or not,” I stress with utmost certainty.
“Are you sure about that?” Her perfectly, caramel-colored, penciled eyebrow arches, driving her question home.
“No one is taking them from me again. No one,” I vow.
She relaxes her forehead. “That might not be up to you, Jamie. I’ve known Jenna a long time. She’s stronger-willed than any other woman I’ve ever met. In fact, she could probably match my husband’s determination and stubbornness.”
“If that sick . . .” I pull in a breath. “If your husband isn’t up for discussion, then you probably shouldn’t bring him up again.” My voice rises. I’m not trying to be an asshole, though, that’s exactly what I sound like. It’s just that if she isn’t willing to talk about him, then I’d just rather not hear any mention of him at all.
“Fair enough.” She nods, reclining back into the plush chair she’s seated in. “Tell me about what’s warring inside your head.”
“So that you can psychoanalyze me? No thanks. I’m not one of your patients. I don’t need you trying to tell me how best I should handle all this newfound information in here,” I say, tapping on my temple with my index finger.
“It’s not my job to tell any of my patients how to handle anything they might be going through or struggling with. It is my job, however, to help them help themselves. And no, Jamie, you are not my patient, but I am here to listen should you want me to. Sometimes just speaking things out loud is all one needs to sort through their own problems.”
“Then I’m just helping myself.” I almost laugh. “And if that’s the case, what’s the point of your job, Doc?” Jesus Christ, I sound like a prick, and in this moment, that’s exactly what I’m being. She was once a victim just like the other two women I met when I stepped foot into this house. I shouldn’t speak to her or get defensive like I’ve been doing.
“In a lot of cases, just listening does wonders for a person’s soul.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, my voice more of a sigh than I’d like it to be. “I’m not trying to be a jackass.”
“You aren’t bothering me with your honest feelings and emotions.” She gives me a warmer smile than I deserve. “You aren’t hurting my feelings either. This room is safe. If you want to scream or yell or get mad and curse me out . . . you can.”
“I don’t want to do any of those things.” I take a breath. “I have a lot to wrap my head around, and there are still things Jenna hasn’t told me that I want to know. Need to know. Yelling at a woman I’ve just met or any woman at all isn’t going to help me or anyone else. I am sorry, Doc.”
“In here, you can call me Jessica if you prefer, or Doc is fine too.”
“Probably best if I keep calling you Doc so that I don’t slip up and call you anything else when we aren’t in here.” And I don’t plan on being back in this room after we leave. I don’t tell her that. Her eyes tell me she has a desire to fix people—even me.
“Of course.” Her eyes dip, and I can tell she’s looking at where my hands are still clamped around my jean-clad legs. “Are you okay, Jamie? Is it okay if I ask you what you are feeling at this very moment?” Her lashes snap back before her brows rise and her eyes set on mine again.
Do I want to tell her? I war with myself. She’s just going to think I’m another nutcase.
“Sometimes it feels like there is a fire kindling inside me and sometimes it feels like my skin is literally on fire.”
“I see.” She nods.
“And before you tell me it’s all in my head”—I hold up my right hand, shaking my head—”just save your breath.”
“I wasn’t going to say that. I have no doubt that you feel fire below your skin, that you feel like you’re burning from the inside out.” Her words hit home, catching me off guard. The only person that’s ever believed me was Jenna. Even my bandmates somewhat think the doctors were all right and that it’s something I tell myself I feel so that I don’t face whatever it is I’m feeling.
“Why?” I find myself asking. Jenna’s only answer was that she knew I wasn’t crazy and that if I say I feel something, then my affirmation was enough for her. Turns out, though, her words weren’t enough for me.
“You aren’t the first pat—” She stops herself from calling me a patient, giving me an apologetic look. “You aren’t the first person I’ve ever met that has made those claims. No one but you can feel what’s going on inside your head, inside your body, or even on your body.” Her lips tip up, though she isn’t smiling at me. “Living through the things I have, I can generally tell when something is real and isn’t real for another.”
“Who was the patient?” I ask, wanting to know more about this other person.
Her lips thin out as her head shakes in a quick, side to side motion. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, Jamie,” is all she says before continuing. “Does it only happen when you get upset, angry, or when something doesn’t go your way?”
“All of the above,” I admit.
“Only those reasons or other times too?”
“Pretty much just those.”
“You look like you control it well,” she says, a curious beam dancing in her eyes.
“I guess you could say I’ve learned how. I know what to do to get the burn under control. I can’t make it go away, but if I stop and try, I can damper the heat. At least I could until yesterday morning,” I admit.
“I heard you were shown something you probably never should have had to see. I am sorry for that.” No doubt in my mind it was her husband that told her that tidbit. As if reading my thoughts, she nods, knowing I’m back to thinking about the man that stole what wasn’t his to take, abused Jenna, and then tried to kill our child. “Do you mind sharing with me how you control it? How you stop it from escalating? I’d very much love to know so that it might help others.”
I don’t have an issue opening this side of me and telling her if it could potentially help someone else with these same issues. It took me a long time to figure out how to manage my problem, so at least divulging the things I try couldn’t hurt.
“Sure,” I offer, shrugging. “I can do—”
A rumbling sound stops me, and we glance in the direction of the closed door. Living in a house with stairs, I know that sound is someone running down the stairs as fast as their feet will move. The only person on the third floor was Jen, so what’s happened, I wonder, getting up and heading for the door without finishing my answer to Jessica. Someone only runs in a house that fast if they are excited or scared and the latter has me hightailing it out the door and down the stairs behind Jenna’s retreating form.
Is something wrong? Did something happen to the boys or even my mom? I may be upset with her, and don’t understand how she could have known and not said a word all these years, but if something were to happen to my mom and the last moment between us was me storming past her without so much as a ‘goodbye’ or even ‘hey, Mom, it’s good to see you,’ I’d never forgive myself, and I already have too damn much I can’t forgive myself for to add any more.
26
— Jenna —
Eighteen years ago
It’s been fourteen days since my captor wielded a bat against every inch of my body—over and over. From the little bit of information he has divulged, it’s been nine weeks, over two months, since I’ve seen daylight, fresh air . . . Jamie.
I’m still somewhere in his warehouse, or home or whatever this place is, but I’m no longer locked up. My wrists and ankles no longer have heavy cuffs locked around them. Though it isn’t like I’m in any condition to make a run for it. It’s only been two weeks since I received the beating that I’m certain will leave not only physical marks for the rest of my life but mental ones too.
My captor and I se
em to be at somewhat of a standstill. He says he no longer has plans to sell me to the highest bidder, or any buyer for that matter, but he doesn’t know if he can release me. That was our conversation last night. I want to leave this dark, depressing hell. I want to go home. I miss Jamie so much that it often becomes hard to breathe at the thought of my boyfriend or my life before I was taken.
But at this point, I’m not sure when or if that’s going to happen. I know I’m making headway with Josh, but his demons seem to have their claws dug so deep into his skin that I don’t know if it’s possible to get through to him enough to let me go.
My gut tells me he isn’t all bad. He feels, though he is a master at masking his emotions. He told me about Jessica a week ago, and the way he speaks about her tells me a part of him deeply cares for her, perhaps even loves her. She was his first kidnapping four years ago.
Josh is twenty-one, so when I realized he had started his career as a human trafficker at my age . . . Well, I was speechless. I had no idea what to say to that. I can’t fathom this life, his life.
“What made you . . . you?” I find myself asking as Josh changes the bandages on my back. I’m lying on a seemingly new leather couch in a room with a television but nothing else. His place is so minimal, so bare, so plain. There is nothing here with any personalization. No pictures, no plants, no life that I have seen other than the two of us.
“What do you mean?” His voice is rough; less harsh than before but still deep and as soul penetrating as I thought it was the first time I met him.
I don’t know why that seems like a lifetime ago when it wasn’t.
When I woke up, cold and alone and damn near half-naked in my cell, he walked in as if knowing I had awoken, his tall form looking god-like, or demon-like if you think about it to my crumpled-up one on the ground. I didn’t recognize him at first. The room was dim, but when he opened his mouth and his harsh tone bit into me, I knew exactly who he was. He has a voice that no one, male or female, would ever forget. It sends a chill down your spine. It raises the hair on the back of your neck.
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