by Poppy Flynn
"Okay, so back to the night you ran away," he recapped. "I have Micah's version of events as far as it goes, but perhaps you could run me through it."
She went through it all again from the start. The detective didn't say a word when she told him about stealing the boots and the scarf, though he must have heard the way she stumbled over the telling with the weight of her guilt. She had half expected him to tell her he'd have to arrest her for the theft.
"You said you spent the night in an abandoned cottage," he pushed. Do you have any idea how far away that was from where you started?"
Melody shook her head. "All I can tell you is that it was late when he threw me out of the house. It had been dark for a long time." She paused and thought back for the tiniest clue that might help. "I could still hear traffic, though, so it probably wasn't past ten pm. The brute—V—was a man of habit. In the longest days of summer, he always went to bed a little while after dark. I estimate it was a similar time throughout the year. I never knew the time, but I learned to get a sense of it through the sun, the moon, and the length of the days." She spread her hands out helplessly, unsure of how to explain it.
"It was still dark when I found the ruined house. It felt like the middle of the night, but I slept until close to dusk the following day, so maybe it was later."
"Can you estimate how far you travelled after you woke up? Or tell me how long it took?" Detective Storer urged, his wheelchair creaking as he adjusted his position.
Melody frowned. "I searched the house before I left to see if there was anything useful." A tinge of embarrassment coloured her voice.
"It's okay, Melody. It was abandoned," Micah reminded, patting her hand.
She nodded and felt a little better. "I found some tins of old food and an old-fashioned can opener. It was rusty and took a long time to open them. Two were green and putrid looking and none had a readable label, so it was anyone's guess what was inside. I almost gave up after the second, but I was so hungry, and I had no energy despite sleeping so long. I didn't think I could go too far unless I found something to eat, so it was a while before I left. Eventually, I managed to open two tins of peaches which looked okay and I kept one of the cans, so I could get water from the river."
"There was a river?" The detective dug out his phone and looked at a map app, taking down some more notes as he did so. "Okay, I have some more questions about the river," he eventually declared. "But finish with the time line first."
"Umm…there was a wardrobe and a chest. I looked in those before I left. I found some old-fashioned long johns, so I put those on, and a wool dress, so at least I was covered. I managed to find some old string, so I could roll one of the blankets that was there and take it with me. I cut a strip off the tarpaulin with a shard of broken glass from one of the windows, to wrap around it, so it didn't get wet."
Melody took a deep breath. It was hard reliving every last detail like this.
"It was almost dark when I left, and I went to get water from the river first, which meant backtracking a bit, but not much, because there was still a little bit of light when I got back to the cottage and beyond it. Enough for me to choose a route and head in the right direction."
"Go on," Detective Storer encouraged, and Melody realised that she had trailed off and gotten lost in her own head. Micah engulfed her tiny hand in his own and gave it a squeeze and she was glad of the warmth and support.
"It seemed like I walked a long way, but I'm not sure I was going very fast. I came across a barn. It was still being used, but there was no house in sight, so I thought it would be a safe enough place to spend the rest of the night. It was too dark to see where I was going by then, anyway. There was a tap in the barn, so I had a lot of decent water, at least, and I didn't sleep so long that night."
Melody reached for the glass that Micah habitually left on the side table for her. The memory of how wretchedly thirsty she had sometimes been during that desperate flight of emancipation urged her to drink while she had the chance.
"It was only just starting to get light when I left the barn, but since it's winter, it was probably seven or eight o clock, I guess. I walked almost all day long, but I had to rest a lot. My feet hurt, and I didn't have any energy. It was early evening when I found my way through the woods at the edge of the boundary and found this place."
"And how many nights did you sleep outside here?" he asked. "And did you sleep anywhere else before you tucked into the old stock entrance recess?"
Melody shook her head. "No, there was nowhere else. It was too dark for me to get a good look at where might be safe. I found a tray of pastries that had been thrown out by the bakery along the road, but I couldn't see anywhere to bunk down, and I remembered seeing the sheltered doorway. Plus, there was a drain pipe where I could collect rain water to drink."
She looked at Micah then. "I was planning just to stay one night. I didn't think it would be safe to stop any longer, but I soon worked out it was a club, so it was empty in the daytime, and the recess I was using was redundant, so no one came near it at night. Also, there was a better supply of food than I'd had before, and I was so drained and exhausted! I slept there for three nights before Micah found me," she revealed.
"And you've spent one night here, meaning it was Wednesday night when you fled, and you journeyed for probably no more than twenty hours in total. I'll ask Xavier how fast you could have realistically been walking with your injuries and afflictions and work out how much distance you might feasibly have covered, then I'll triangulate that on the map using the club as a centre point and what streams and rivers we can identify within that area."
"Less than a week," Melody murmured as if Detective Storer's words had gone straight over her head. "It seems like more, somehow."
He ran her through a few more things before he took his leave. The altercation between V and Daddy, physical descriptions of the houses she had lived in, with each man, and far too many uncomfortable questions about the way the brute had treated her. How often he had beaten her, how often he invited other men to use her, any specific memories that stuck out for whatever reason.
Melody found herself ashamed and embarrassed when she told of having to sleep on the floor in the basement with nothing more than a filthy blanket if she was lucky, or in a cage so tiny she could barely fit inside it, if she was unlucky. And again, when she had to admit that what meagre food she was allowed were leftovers that were thrown on the basement floor.
"One last thing before I go, Melody," Detective Storer finally declared after what seemed like hours. "Micah explained that you'd been denied the use of your name and you had to think a while before you remembered it."
"It was only a few seconds," she refuted defensively. "He just took me by surprise, asking for it."
The detective just nodded, absently tapping his fingers on the side of the box which controlled his wheelchair. "What I was wondering was if you have a surname?"
Melody just looked at him and blinked, nonplussed. The pause really wasn't that long. "Sutton," she finally replied.
By the time Detective Storer was done, she felt as if she had been emotionally flayed and psychologically shattered, despite feeling physically stronger than she had since before she had made her escape.
Micah didn't need a psychology degree to know that the Q & A session with Andy Storer had taken everything out of Melody and left her feeling vulnerable and over exposed.
It was more and more clear that her coping mechanisms were twofold: tuck the bad memories away so they didn't disturb her, and the stoic mind-set that she was a slave, and therefore, whatever had prevailed was simply service to her masters.
The latter allowed her to view her incarceration and treatment as something other than abuse, which helped her, psychologically, from drowning in a mire of fear and self-reproach. It might possibly be diagnosed as straightforward denial if the situation had been different, but Micah didn't think so. Melody certainly wasn't displaying the mentality that she was re
sponsible for the abuse that she had suffered, although she did seem to be firmly entrenched in the slave mind-set. That was what she identified herself as and how she responded to people as a result.
Of course, that was equally as damaging in itself, but breaking her of the illusion that she was nothing but a slave, expected only to serve and endure any harsh treatment, was possibly easier to combat than the trying to counteract the psyche of someone who was abused and all the complex emotions and reactions that went with it.
In fact, he'd already started by having her characterise him as her master and showing, and continuing to prove, that it didn't necessarily mean she had to endure abuse and neglect because of the dynamic. As she got used to it, she would learn to function autonomously until she was finally able to live for herself. He wasn't altogether comfortable with the idea, but he knew it was a means to an end.
Despite her circumstances, Melody had proven herself to be intelligent and logical in her responses to Andy's questioning, commendably able to apply reason and evaluation to the situations she had found herself in. That ability to analyse and contemplate her actions and reactions would stand her in good stead over the coming recovery period.
The effect of stirring up of memories and events she would prefer to remain segregated remained to be seen. It may cause her some distress and unease in the short term, but it might also prove cathartic to express those experiences and exorcize them.
Right now, though, he could see that she'd had enough.
"Come on," he offered, even though it was still relatively early. "I'll carry you to bed."
"I could walk, you know," she replied wearily.
"No, you couldn't," he retorted. "For a start, you don't look like you have the energy to fight your way out of a paper bag right now, and even if that wasn't the case, you still need to stay off those feet for another couple of days. Doctor's orders," he reminded her for the second time, leaving absolutely no room for argument.
"I am tired," she agreed in the end, allowing him to scoop her up and carry her down the corridor. Since the club was closed Monday and Tuesday and only opened on Wednesdays for training classes, he had been letting her sleep in the luxury of the French boudoir playroom with its decadently sumptuous bed. Come Thursday, when the room was back in use, he'd have to come up with another plan, but for now, at least, she had privacy and comfort.
Chapter 7
Micah awoke with a start and wondered what it was that had disturbed his sleep. Senses sharpening, he listened keenly to the sounds that penetrated the calm blackness of the night.
The heating pipes gave the occasional gurgle, and he could hear the chill winter wind blowing through the eaves. Rain pattered incessantly but softly on the window, but other than that, everything seemed quiet.
He had just settled down to sleep again when he heard the noise once more. Instinct had him out of bed and running down the hall, heedless of his state of undress, before his brain finished processing that the haunting, primal wail had come from the room where Melody slept.
He skidded to a stop just inside the doorway, realising in the nick of time that his presence might alarm her all the more. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself after the mindless dash to her aid and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the nocturnal gloom and shadows. There were no lights, and he had already surmised that Melody was well used to being in the dark after being kept in an underground basement for so many years.
When he softly called her name, and got no reply, Micah padded on silent feet across the room and realised she was still asleep, if the tossing and twisting in the blankets and the mournful whimpers that filled the room, now that he was close enough to detect them, could be described as sleep. She was obviously in the throes of a night terror, and usually, he would follow best advice and leave her to settle naturally, but even in the dim light, he could see by her thrashing, she was winding herself tighter and tighter in the bed sheets. And the tighter they wound, the worse they constricted her, and the more distressed she became. Given her history of being forcibly restrained, he decided it was in her best interests to wake her up.
As he stood back at a distance so that his presence wouldn't spook her when she came to, Micah started to call her name, keeping his voice low and calm and speaking softly, attempting to soothe her with his tone.
At first, she was too agitated to respond, but gradually, she calmed enough that her thrashing ceased, and her harsh, sobbing breaths subsided. He thought he might have done enough to ease her angst without her waking and was preparing to leave the room when she spoke.
"I'm awake," she revealed on a heaving, tortured breath. "Please, could you help untangle me from these sheets; it's making me want to panic." Her voice quivered erratically, and Micah knew she was grasping desperately at the ragged edges of control in an effort not to break down entirely.
"Of course. I'm coming closer, on your right," Micah warned so he didn't scare her.
"I can s-see you."
When he moved closer, Micah could see just how badly she trembled with the remnants of her fear.
"I'm going to help you sit up first," he told her in the same soothing voice as he prepared to lift her bodily into position. "Now, we'll work on getting your arms out," he instructed, knowing that as soon as they were free, she would start to feel better.
He pushed the knotted jumble of sheets down her shoulders as gently as he could, murmuring reassuring nonsense words in an attempt to prevent her from trying to fight her way out and opening up some of her wounds in the process.
As he suspected, he felt her physically relax as soon as her arms were no longer pinned within the confines of the bedding. Still, he made his movements slow and cautious. She was jumpy enough as it was.
As soon as she had wiggled out of the entanglement, Micah passed her the glass of water that sat on the dresser and encouraged her to take a drink to soothe the hoarseness of her throat, but her hands still shook so badly that he had to help her hold it, to prevent the water from spilling all over the bed.
Micah straightened up the bedding, ignoring the fact that she was naked underneath.
"Do you mind if I take a quick look to check your dressings are still intact?" he asked her.
Melody shook her head and sat quietly while he inspected for any recent damage. He smoothed down the sticky edges of a couple of the dressing pads which had been rubbed loose. They'd hold until morning. He could see a couple of smears of blood where she'd opened some of the lash wounds that hadn't been covered, and he held a convenient tissue to them to stop the small dribbles that oozed out, but overall, there was nothing that wouldn't wait until the following day.
He encouraged her to settle back down, finally, as he pulled the sheets up around her and tucked them tight, so they wouldn't wrap around her again. As he rose to leave, she surprised him by grasping his forearm in an unexpectedly strong grip, the lingering, residual quakes still trembling through her fingers.
"Don't go!" she begged with a hint of panic in her voice. "Please…" she trailed off as if remembering it wasn't her place to make demands then collapsed back onto the bed and looked away. "I'm sorry," she murmured instead, repressing whatever it was she'd been about to ask. "You must be tired," she said, instead. "I'm sorry I disturbed your sleep."
"Melody, are you okay?" Micah asked. He rubbed his hand over his face. Jeez! How trite did he sound? He knew she wasn't okay; she'd just woken, screaming and terrified.
"I just…" she started. Melody took a shuddering breath and kept her eyes averted. "I'm fine," she said, but the words didn't match the catch in her voice as she said it.
Micah sat down on the bed for the first time since he'd entered the room. He'd been trying to maintain a professional distance, but that wasn't so easy when Melody was breaking apart right in front of him. She'd been so strong and stalwart in everything she'd dealt with so far, taking it all in her stride, with a matter of fact attitude which had astounded him, despite her obviou
s physical fragility.
It was clear that raking everything up, this afternoon, had unsettled her mind and uncovered unpleasant memories which she would've preferred to have kept hidden, but it had been a necessary evil. Melody needed to air those vile experiences and let them go so she could heal mentally. And they needed the information so that they could investigate her situation and try to offer some kind of legal conclusion for the criminal injustices she had suffered. She needed to be able to relax and find closure, so she could move forward with her life without the fear of always having to look over her shoulder for the rest of her days, without having to be constantly on edge that her captor might find her once again.
"I'm right here," Micah promised her. "I'll look out for you and make sure you're safe."
She looked at him then, piercing him with those violet eyes, luminous with her tears, so beautiful and yet so tragic.
"Will you please stay with me?" she whispered, the tiny thread of forlorn hope in her voice effectively killing the automatic denial that was on the tip of his tongue.
Damn it, he knew damn well that she'd probably never asked for anything in her life, because she knew it would either be denied, or worse, induce a punishment for her audacity. How the hell could he deny her? It cost him nothing to do so, except his own peace of mind which fought against Melody developing any kind of rescuer attachment, but only because he was well aware of the depth of his own saviour complex. The two of them feeding off of each other could prove disastrous for Melody's long-term liberation. His own ingrained aspiration to relieve the tormented mind was what had enticed him into the field of psychology in the first place, but he had learned the hard way that, sometimes, his own desire to help might be used as a crutch rather than a deliverance.
Melody's desire to identify herself as his slave and have him as her master was a case in point, and he didn't want to enable a mind-set that had been cruelly beaten into her. But breaking her of it, without breaking her, was a fragile and delicate balance, one that had him measuring every step, every action and reaction, because he'd also learned the hard way that he couldn't save everyone. It simply ravaged too much of his emotion, and the latent guilt, hanging over him from Sara's death, had burned him so savagely that he longer felt as if he could keep giving away little pieces of his soul. Not if he wanted any left for himself.