Sitting up in the bed, the cocooned Mallory began to sip her tea. "What have you been up to all morning, filling out university applications?" she mumbled over the edge of the cup.
The question nearly sent Dawn over the edge. Did her girlfriend have any idea what they were saying about them on television? Did she even care? This wasn't a time to talk about university, for godssakes. It wasn't that she didn't want a future, but that she couldn't see it clearly at the end of all that was happening.
Dawn's mind was in the here and now, intensely bothered by the gossip and the looming possibility of testifying as the news had speculated. She knew that Mallory was ignoring what was going on to a certain extent as a coping mechanism, and tried not to be angry. She tried not to be resentful at the once loving arms that would fall heavily across the bed, rather than her, at night time.
Drugged beyond comprehension for days, Mallory was incapable of much else other than snoring. Dawn understood that it was illogical to be aggravated with the woman who cared so deeply for her, but being cooped up wasn't helping. It also didn't help that she felt intrinsically deserving of the misery; after all, it had been her presence that had messed Mallory's life up.
However much Dawn knew all these things, and no matter how kind and sweet she was, she was ill equipped to express her hurt properly. Her heart screamed at her to stop; to be nice, and think before she spoke.
Thinking was a bad idea, though: her mind screamed rebelliously at being trapped inside. Watching the telly non stop made her feel like this was a time for fight or flight, and she refused to leave Mallory. Rather than doing that unspeakable thing, she lashed out.
"I'll do the damned applications when I feel like it," she snarked, making her way out of the room, and back down the stairs.
Her eyes blurred with tears at Mallory's stern voice calling her name, but the calls went unheeded.
Just as she was about to step down into the kitchen, a knock came from the front door. She stumbled down the last tread of the stairs, and twisted her ankle.
"Fffffffffffff-" Dawn nearly swore, and limped towards the foyer. The doorbell rang, and she grit her teeth at the person's impatience. "Coming! I'm coming!"
Tugging the door open, she was surprised to see Dr. Sheehan again.
The typically over polite woman had a huge scowl on her face. "Dawn – just the person I need to see. May I come in?"
"Of course, Doctor," she hobbled out of the way, and motioned her arm in a welcoming gesture. What in the world had made Margaret so upset? If she had to guess, it was probably what was upsetting her too.
"I can't stay long," Dr. Sheehan began, not removing her shoes as she stepped inside, and closed the door. "Well, we can't stay long. Your father wants to see you – and refuses to speak with prosecution until he does," she spat. "He's attempting to manipulate the situation from within, Dawn. I cannot warn you how imperative it is to allow him the small victory so that we can get a better read on him. He might become clumsy with his answers if you push him enough."
Dawn's mouth hung open, and now she well and truly wanted to scream. "I, uhh...”
Without warning, Mallory swept into the foyer. Fully dressed but without makeup and her hair thrown into a twisted mess of a bun, it was obvious that she had rushed. She must have overheard the knocking, which meant that she heard what Margaret had asked.
"Absolutely not!" she fumed, enraged at the proposition. "Dawn, tell her no."
Being told what to do when she felt so out of control made Dawn explode. She spun towards Mallory, her ankle turning with the fast motion. The pain made her even angrier. "Damn it, I'd go anywhere right now to escape this... Hell! If only for a moment!"
Mallory reeled back as if she'd been slapped. "But – "
"No, no!" Dawn interrupted, tugging on a pair of flats with a wince. "You don't get to make decisions like this for me! I want to go."
It wasn't so much that she was trying to break free from Mallory's guiding force, but there was no other way that her lover would let her go, except to make this stand. She wanted answers, and there was one man who could give them to her. Obstinately unshakable in her decision, Dawn took her purse from the hanging rack.
The purse beside it was taken down seconds later, and Mallory swung it over her shoulder with a sharpness that told what she felt about the decision. "Then I'm going with you."
_____________________________________
Whatever Dawn had imagined a prison was like, this wasn't it. The inside of Holme House was huge, eerily quiet, and painted a barren white. After being led through countless security checkpoints and being patted down numerous times by staff, their motley crew followed a guard towards a private visiting cell. It had a room off to the side for observation with what appeared to be a double sided mirror, and Margaret entered it with a nod towards the man that had led them here.
"You don't have to do this, amare," Mallory begged in one last effort, slipping a hand into hers with a squeeze. "Please, Dawn. Don't."
Mallory's strength had been whittled by stress so much that her voice wavered as she beseeched Dawn, and it twisted something deep inside of her heart.
"Yes, I do," she blurted out, squeezing the hand back before going through an odd, buzzing door with the jailer. 'For us.'
Dawn did not look back. She knew if she did that Mallory's eyes would be filled with tears, and then – then she would lose her courage.
Behind a glass window sat her father, his shackled hands resting on a white desk-like ledge that ran along the bottom. Along a seam in the glass hung a red corded phone, their only means to hear one another.
A folding chair grated along the concrete floor as the guard slid it towards her, and she accepted it with a grateful smile. There wasn't any need to expend her anger on that man.
She turned to the one whom she planned to lay the brunt of it on, and sat down. Steven's cold stare met her own.
Dawn picked up the telephone on her side, and held it to her ear. Her father followed suit, and they sat without speaking for an indeterminable amount of time. He wanted to see her – not truly the other way around – and if he wanted it so badly, he could talk first.
Finally, he did. "Hello, daughter."
It was just as chilling as the lack of emotion in his eyes, and Dawn felt so very small. "H-Hello," she said.
The man who had hurt Mallory beyond belief was merely inches away through glass, and she wanted the barrier removed. She wanted him to feel pain, but could barely speak. How could she hurt him, if she couldn't even talk?
But then, this was also the man who had clothed and fed her – the man who had patted her head before bed every now and again. When she was a child, Dawn had longed for a kiss goodnight, or even a hug. He wasn't that kind of a father.
A shiver of revulsion went up and down her spine.
Noticing the shiver, Steven sat forward and tilted his head in question. "Are you cold?"
"N-No," Dawn replied, looking away and towards the mirror where she suspected Mallory waited with Margaret. “Yes? Yeah.”
Be strong, she coached herself. Be strong, be strong, be strong.
Her father took a deep breath, annoyed at her contradiction. "Dawn, I wanted to see that you're being taken care of. I'm not happy with what I see."
That was utterly ridiculous. 'Being taken care of?' she thought bitterly.
He certainly hadn't cared when she was being chased around London by a lunatic barrister, nor when he turned her credit cards off. "What do you care?" she shrugged, still not meeting his eye.
"I care because you're living with a madwoman, Dawn Marie Rose!" he shouted, pounding a fist onto the table. The veins in his neck bulged.
The noise and motion made Dawn jump, and she tried not to cry. The glass gleamed just like the rage that filled his eyes as she peeked sideways, and now she was thankful for it. He couldn't hurt her anymore, and he wasn't going to hurt Mallory.
Licking her lips, Dawn finally looked full on at the
man reduced to wearing prison orange and shackled to his own waist. "If Mallory is mad, it's because of you. You did this to her, didn't you?"
As quickly as Steven's anger came, it disappeared at Dawn's accusation. He knew that she startled easily, and that it had worked. A ringing laugh echoed the room before he leaned back, and sputtered. "Of course not! I have nothing but the deepest sympathy for that empty shell of a woman. I've been looking for Lilith for years, Dawn... Years. But do you have any idea why?"
His game was pissing Dawn off, and while she understood that on a conscious level, it was impossible to stop her hand from slapping against the glass, growling at her own flesh and blood. "You don't get to call her that name. Don't say that name!"
Dismissing her outburst, Steven tapped his fingers together, and continued his sordid tale. "I've been looking for her, because every single application that I filed to foster her after the deaths of her parents had been denied on the basis of mental health," he informed smoothly. “She was very sick.”
"After a few years, your mother came into the picture. She didn't appreciate the money I was spending on private investigation searching for Lilith, so I stopped. All I wanted to do was protect her," he held up his palms in a gesture of innocence.
"You didn't want to protect her!" Dawn shouted, and threw the phone receiver down. He had wanted her assets.
Lies, lies... It was all lies. How could he sit there and spill one after the other like it was normal? If he had succeeded in his scheme to become Mallory's guardian and by proxy her conservator, what would her father have done to her then? The thought made Dawn physically ill, and she clutched at her stomach in an attempt not to vomit.
Unperturbed by the sight of Dawn turning green, Steven Rose got one last dig in.
"It's a good thing I didn't find her all those years ago, Dawn. I'd have had her institutionalized. It's where evil, depraved minds belong – safely locked away, where they can't turn innocent girls like you into the disrespectful slut I can see you've become.”
Even though Dawn had laid her receiver down, her father's voice echoed through it, and into her side of the room.
Laying his receiver down, Steven looked towards the mirror and smirked, before standing up. The guard on his side opened a door to allow him to leave the room.
Dawn rushed towards the glass, her hands clawed in attack. "Mallory is not evil! You're the evil in the world!" she howled. "It's you!"
The door clanked behind her, alerting Dawn to the arrival of someone. At the moment, she was unable to do anything but stand in the middle of the room and shake. Gentle hands pulled at her shoulders.
"You did well, Dawn," Margaret soothed. "Easy now, easy. Come with me – the barristers will want to speak with you."
The psychologist was not the one Dawn wanted to hush or hold her, and she turned away from the touch to walk out of the room. Turning to the left, her eyes searched the observation room for the hands she wanted to hold her; the body she wanted to crush against, warm and cherished in the strong embrace of her love.
Her protector. Her... everything.
The room was empty, and Dawn turned like a lost child towards Margaret.
Dr. Sheehan stood by the door, and shook her head sadly.
_____________________________________
The sun was beginning to set outside. Mallory sat beneath her favorite blanket, clad only in her favorite oxford shirt and underwear, on her favorite window seat. The view from this part of her home was always glorious during summer sunsets.
It had only been a day since the debacle at the prison. She would never forget it, no matter how hard she tried.
Her hands smoothed a leather bound journal's pages open, and she began to write.
Crying all night had left her eyes tired and blurry, so reading glasses balanced on her nose as she looked down at the messy cursive. She hadn't taken her sleeping medication the night before – on purpose – and was glad she hadn't.
Scritch-scratch, the pen marked the paper. It was a cathartic thing, writing – but Mallory couldn't deny that releasing emotions onto paper reminded her of the scars that laced her skin. Both were marks; made permanent with the spilling of something. Writing was simply done with ink, rather than blood.
"She's angry with me today. I know this because she's hiding in the garden.
It was an unpleasant evening for the both of us, put mildly. We'd driven to the jail at the request of that man... monster, yesterday. Of course, the prosecution will do anything to gain a reaction from me, but now they've asked to speak with her on a regular basis as well.
One session. One damn interview after her visit, and Dawn could not sleep. Two hot toddies later, she did.
She woke us both with her screaming - a nightmare. For hours, she refused to tell me what she had dreamt. When I finally was able to coax it out of her, I was sorry that I had asked.
"They killed you!" she hollered, slapping at my shoulders as if feeling the sting against her hands would convince her that I was real. That I was alive, and not truly gone.
What else could I do but fold her into my arms and cry with her? I certainly can't tell her that my dreams are just as haunted - that the best dreams I've had in months are the ones where I am dying.
"I'm not really dead," I told her. The lie twisted my tongue like bitter poison, and she heard it. She always knows when my mouth speaks untruths.
Margaret wants me to write everything that I dream. I'd much rather write about when I'm awake. I don't want to remember what happens between love and morning.
I want to remember her eyes as they peek through the wildflowers, imagining that I don't see her."
Dawn was indeed outside, rolling in the riotous blooms just beyond the hedge. Every so often, Mallory could see a flash of her blue eyes through the foliage, and every time the young woman was caught staring, she would scoot deeper into the cow parsley, nightshade, and bluebells.
She was enjoying the freedom of being outside now that the crowds of paparazzi had been lured away by an injunction from the Crown Court. It had been rushed through by the duty prosecutor, who was saccharine-sweet and oh so very thankful to Dawn for her service to the case.
The woman was often damn near belligerent towards Mallory.
Even though a semblance of dignity and propriety was returned to their home, Stella still sat parked in her cruiser, just off the driveway. She was giving them privacy, and Mallory was genuinely appreciative for it. It meant she could traipse around without pants again, she thought wryly, and wiggled her bare toes in the receding summer sunshine.
Beside her, a reminder chimed on her iPhone. It was time for tea. The chirping for supper had been ignored, as Dawn was already outside.
While Mallory had been relieved not to choke down food that she didn't want to eat, a part of her worried that her little supernova did not eat either. Dawn certainly needed a break from household things – a woman her age ought never be cooried down like a simple housewife – but she still needed nourishment.
Mallory reached over and silenced the alarm. She had already refilled her tea minutes ago, and slid another chocolate digestive biscuit from her saucer. Her lips quirked; the handful of sweets that she brought back along with the tea would have to suffice for supper, and she wasn't about to complain.
Munching on the biccie, she pushed the journal off her lap and reached for her favorite volume of Latin poetry. Distraction was the name of her game this evening. If Dawn required her to back down in order to relax, then she would do so.
She would do anything for Dawn; short of watching Steven Rose act like a complete psychopath, it seemed.
It wasn't that Mallory did not want to stay in the observation room with Margaret, but that she truly did not remember leaving it. There was an empty space between Steven yelling, and finding herself outside the prison, wandering the parking lot. When Margaret and Dawn both failed to mention it after leaving the main doors of HM Holme House, she hadn't brought it up.
> The implications of the blank time made Mallory grimace. She pushed the thought away, turning to a folded over page towards the back of her book. Catullus's Prose No. 5 fell beneath her fingertips as she trailed them across the worn page, her cheeks tightening in an attempt to smile. Her lips stayed relaxed though, well adept at hiding emotions. They didn't always obey, but tonight she was calm.
The dutch door in the kitchen opened and shut, but Mallory didn't turn away from the book. 'Don't push,' she reminded herself.
"Soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda. Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum..." she began to recite aloud.
Peccatum in Carne: Sins of the Flesh (The Three Sins of Mallory Moore Book 1) Page 28