Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1)

by James, Victoria L.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say quietly, as a small, sad smile creeps upon my face. “I’m not too good at speaking to you like this. I usually prefer just to spew a load of nonsensical, verbal emotion in my head and hope that you hear it somehow. I’m sure you hear enough, actually. But today, I feel like I need to actually say the words, you know?” My breath hitches in my throat as I look down at the ground and let my fingers hover over the tips of the freshly cut grass beneath me. “I’m running out of options, Dandy and I’m pinning my last hope on you. I can’t get hold of her, no matter what I do and, I swear, I keep trying really, really hard, but I’m also a little bit scared of what will happen if I push too far. I’m trying your old fashioned, tactical way of thinking. Remember how you used to be when we played Guess Who and you used to try and give me clues to help me along, but half the time I missed them because they were so hidden?”

  A small breeze starts to pick up and my head immediately looks up into the surrounding trees. The rustling is quiet and subtle and I can’t seem to take my eyes off the gentle swaying of the leaves as they hiss all around me as though they’re trying to communicate an answer on Daniel’s behalf. My smile grows wider at the thought of him being the cause of it.

  “Oh, you remember alright.” I laugh softly, trying not to make too much noise. “Well, then you’ll understand why I’ve brought you some daffodils with a little note tucked away inside. Here is the only place I can imagine her ever coming without him in tow, Dad, and I might need your help if and when she finds them. The flower speaks for itself; she’ll know it’s me. But if, say, a gust of wind happened to knock the flowers over and empty the note onto the floor, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” My teeth clamp down on the corner of my mouth as I chew nervously for just a moment. I’m aware that this scheme is probably the worst made scheme in the existence of all schemes, but at this stage, it’s all I’ve got left.

  “My telephone number is in there along with a note of what I can do to keep her safe if she needs me to. Maybe you could appear in her dreams a few times, make her feel guilty for not seeing you in a while? I don’t know. You always were creative. I know you’ll help me out if you can. You've never let either one of us down yet.”

  I spend another hour muttering my ridiculous musings aloud to him. The wind never makes an appearance again, not even for a second. The sun just shines brighter and the heat eventually causes me to pull my hair up into a high ponytail, the exact same way Lily Hemsworth used to do it for me as her way of showing me affection, without being as over the top with it as her husband used to be.

  By the time I get up to leave, I feel like I’ve had the most therapeutic conversation I could ever have hoped to have with anyone living, never mind someone who can’t talk back in the traditional sense. There’s a calmness flowing through me, a feeling of having done the right thing and taking another step closer to Paris. As I drive away from the cemetery, with the wind in my face and Dandy's favourite Motown classics oozing out of the radio, I go to find an open road and take myself on a journey to nowhere for the next few hours. For the first time in such a long time, I feel relaxed and at peace.

  But peace is always temporary.

  The calm always comes before the storm.

  And the storm that arrives just a week later is one that I will never be allowed to forget. No matter how much time tries to take it away from me in the future.

  Twenty-Seven

  April 15th, 2006

  “Paris?” I say quietly. My head turns from side to side, my breathing sounding louder and louder by the second as I narrow my eyes and try to spot her. I wait a moment for a reply, but there’s nothing but the sound of my inner thoughts and fears rattling around in my head.

  Moffy…

  My eyes scrunch tight together at the memory of her weak voice on the other end of the phone.

  “You don’t have time for this now. Find her,” I whisper to myself. Taking a deep breath, I toss a coin in my mind and decide to turn right, running down the corridor of the deserted warehouse.

  He’s… He’s… Please… Just come for me.

  My hands ball together tighter as the phone conversation plays over and over in my mind. My feet pick up pace and my eyes seem to focus on every single thing around me while not actually focusing on anything at all. This is the exact moment I’ve been waiting for and I’m already fucking it up epically. I have to find her.

  “Paris!”

  Nothing. Not even a whimper. I can’t hear anything except the echo of my own voice bouncing back from every bare wall and hollow space. This place is so fucking big.

  It’s been almost three years since I’ve been allowed to see her - since he took her away and turned her into something she was never meant to be. Three years I’ve been waiting by the phone for the very call I received just an hour ago, knowing that it was only a matter of time before she needed me.

  My teeth grind together as I run through a large area of worn-down machinery, rubble, bricks and abandoned boxes. She has to be close by. There has to be somewhere around here where she’s hiding. This is definitely the place. This is where she said she would be.

  Remember the place we used to break into as children? I’ll be there. Please… I need you.

  How will you get there? How will you escape?

  Don’t worry about that. Just be there for me. I know you will. I know you won’t let me down.

  “Never,” I cry out as a tear falls down my cheek. I could never let her down. To me, she is my world – the one living, breathing soul who got me through my own horrendous childhood. If it hadn’t been for her, who knows how I would have survived?

  Don’t phone me back. You can’t. Do you understand me? He doesn’t know I’m making this ca-

  Her words were cut off by a blood-curdling scream in her throat as the phone was yanked away from her grip. The echo of his palm meeting her face had reverberated down the receiver, and the sound of it was so real, it felt like it was me he was hitting, not her. A second later, the line had fallen dead and the anger that surged through my body was instant. All I can think is that if he’s touched another hair on her head since then I will…

  “Focus! You have to fucking focus!” I shout at myself before quickly turning my attention back to her. “Paris! Paris! Please, just let me know you’re here.”

  Every part of my body is pulling in different directions. My head seems to want to move one way, while my feet circle endlessly in a bid to try and cover some unexplored ground. The unnatural quiet is almost suffocating as I try to control my ragged breaths and listen for her. I’m just about to turn on my heels and take off in another direction when the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand to attention and all my senses sharpen.

  That’s when I hear her. I hear her soft, hidden cry.

  “Paris?” I say firmly, trying to calm my throbbing heart, spinning round in circles by an old office door. “Goose, is that you?” The eerie silence just continues to taunt me. “It’s Mav,” I say softly, suddenly aware that my erratic cries and the panic in my voice won’t be doing anything to keep her calm. Moving carefully, I take a slow, steady step across some old, wooden flooring and cringe when it creaks loudly in protest.

  Another whimper and then a sob.

  Shit! That’s definitely her.

  It may have been three years since I heard the sound of her voice, but it could be twenty years and I would still recognise it. I charge forward, running around an old piece of decaying equipment before coming to a halt completely. The moment I see her, hunched over in a corner, her knees tucked in under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins and her head buried tight against her chest, I freeze.

  Inside, I’m screaming at myself to move forward – to run to her side and hold her, but I’m scared. I’m scared of what I will see when she lifts her chin. I’m scared of feeling the desperate need for revenge I have been known to get. I’m scared of what it will eventually take to make me calm.

 
; “Mav, is that… you?” she croaks through a cry, her head still hidden in the filth of her over-sized clothes.

  “I’m here.”

  “Don’t be scared,” she whimpers, as though she can already read every damn thought I’m having. “I-I’m okay.”

  Before making the conscious decision to do so, I’ve rushed to her side and am holding her head against my chest, cradling her tight as she remains still, sobbing and worn.

  “Sshh, I’ve got you now. I'm not going anywhere.”

  Her sobs get louder as she hides herself within my clothes, both of us putting off looking at one another while our emotion and vulnerability pours itself out into this long overdue embrace. The shock of having her here is overwhelming and I can’t think of anything at all to say.

  “I’m here, it’s okay.” I silently wince as her nails claw into the thin shirt on my back, her hold getting tighter as she finally realizes I’ve come for her. I press my mouth against the top of her head and kiss her softly. “I’m so sorry. I should never have let you go to him. I should have made you stay. I should have tried to find you sooner. I didn't know. I swear I didn't.”

  I wait for her to protest the way she usually does. We have a habit of taking as much of the blame as we can away from each other when times get hard. Instead, she silently clings to me before pulling away slowly and lifting her head.

  My hand quickly covers my mouth in shock and the traitor tears threaten to push themselves forward. The Paris that looks back at me isn’t the girl I let go three years ago. Aside from the obvious signs of physical abuse, her face is grey, gaunt, ghostly and gut-wrenchingly sad. Her usually enchanting green eyes have lost their depth; the whites are yellow and bloodshot while the lids hang over them, trying to shadow the obvious changes.

  Her hair has been cut much shorter than she has ever had it before in her life, and the ends look scraggly and split. Her mouth looks drier than the desert sands, all cracked and bloodied and desperate for water.

  “Talk to me,” she whispers.

  “I… I can’t,” I manage to breathe out.

  Paris lowers her head slowly, hiding herself away from me, and I know I’ve already fucked up already. I’m staring at her like she’s a circus freak when what I really want to do is wrap her up and take her home, remind her of the good life she used to have and show her how we can make it happen all over again. Lifting my hand as slowly as I can, I place my finger under her chin and guide her eyes back to mine. When I say my next words, I want her to see the sincerity that looks at her.

  “You still look beautiful.” It’s the exact same thing I used to say to my mother, but she doesn’t need to know that. It doesn’t make it any less true. Her face remains still as a single tear slides down her cheek. “No man’s fist could ever change that about you, Paris. Not ever.”

  Another tear falls down the other side of her face. I carefully tuck her hair behind her ears, trail a thumb under both eyes to dry her face and scan every inch of her for any signs of injury she’s too scared to tell me about.

  “But I’m not going to give you any more chances to test that theory out, okay? This is it. You’re coming home with me. For good this time,” I breathe out, swallowing down the large painful lump in my own throat. “I’m going to clean you up, both outside and in. I’ll help heal your bruises. I’ll make sure you never touch another illegal substance in your life. I’ll put a roof over your head, feed you, and clothe you. I’ll show you how to live again.” I cup her face in my palms, gaze into her eyes and whisper, “I’m stepping in, Paris. I’m not going to let him kill you. He’s no longer a part of your life as of this moment. It’s us against the world.”

  I wait for her reaction, but she’s a ghost of what she once was and all she can do is look at me like the frightened, caged animal she has become.

  “You’re safe now,” I breathe out and pull her back against me, holding her as tight as I can without hurting her. She’s so damn thin I can feel her bones through her coat. My eyes close with overwhelming grief, guilt and a small dash of relief.

  “Maverick?” she whimpers.

  “Yes, Goose?”

  “I love you.”

  Twenty-Eight

  April 16th, 2006

  When someone you love is suffering, you want a quick fix, and anything less than an instant resolution just isn’t acceptable. While the relief I feel at having her back where she belongs is overwhelming, so is my shock at how ill she has become. Yes, I’m using the term ill, because Paris is broken, both in body and in mind. The drugs that have been poured into her bloodstream have made her bones fragile, her limbs weak and her senses frayed. It comes as no surprise to me that she begs me not to contact either doctors or the police, but I know that I don’t have long before Daggs ends up knocking on my door, demanding she goes back to him, so I know I have to forge some kind of immediate plan.

  The day after bringing her home, at some hour which doesn’t register to either of us but definitely involves sunlight, I manage to get her to sit weakly on the edge of the bed in the room that has now been officially declared hers. I pull back her hair, wipe the sharp lines of her gaunt face with a cloth and ask her to look into the camera I’m holding up in front of her. Paris never questions me as to what I’m doing. If I’m honest, I don’t think she fully understands whether she is asleep or awake. Her eyes are lifeless as she stares through the lens with a lost expression on her face.

  I take as many pictures of her bruised, fractured body as I can. Moving with as much caution as my slightly trembling hands allow, I carefully peel back certain pieces of her clothing and expose the areas of body that her, now ex, boyfriend has recently abused. Every dark colouring of her skin makes the old feelings of adolescent anger twist and turn in the very pits of my stomach, but I try not to let her see any other emotion on my face but calm.

  It’s like looking at my mother all over again.

  Tucking her back under the fresh duvet, I move over to the curtains in the bedroom and pull them completely closed. She doesn’t have to tell me the bright sunlight is making her head feel like it is being attacked with a sledgehammer, I can see it with every nervous flutter of her eyelashes and harsh creasing of her brows. I make sure she has enough water by her bedside to keep hydrated. I keep her supplied with the most basic form of paracetamol I can find, simply in the hope that it will take the edge off the excruciating pain I know she’s in. I do all the things that make me feel like I’m being useful to her, when in reality; I know it’s not helping her at all. Her recovery is going to take weeks, months, maybe even years.

  As I tiptoe across the room with my camera tucked under my arm, I try to slide out of her bedroom door as quietly as I can, only to be stopped when I hear a weak croak escape her throat. I turn to face her to see if she’s alright, but before I can even take a footstep in her direction, her quiet, raspy whisper freezes me in place.

  “I look like shit, don’t I?”

  “You’ve seen better days,” I reply through a flat smile. Her arm is slung across her forehead in an attempt to dim the daylight even further. “You’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “You never were a good liar.”

  “Get some sleep, Paris,” I say calmly as I try to discreetly swallow down the lump that’s formed in my throat, just from hearing her speak a few broken words.

  “Will you stay here with me?”

  My eyes close slowly as I continue to try and compose myself. I thought I could handle seeing her in any state she turned up in, but hearing her sound so fragile and scared feels about as painful as I imagine it does when someone sticks a knife in your chest.

  “Of course I will,” I answer, forcing a weak, half smile on my face and opening my eyes to try and sell the emotions I’m hoping she will buy. “I just have a few things I need to take care of first. Then I’m all yours. Is that okay?”

  “Be quick,” she breathes through tired, dry lips.

  “Like Superman,” I whisper.

&n
bsp; Then I slip out of the door and shut it behind me quietly before I begin to make my way back downstairs to put my plan into action. I only hope that once she’s better, she realises everything I’m doing is for her own good.

  *******

  “Yes, I… I need to speak to the manager, please.” My voice sounds far more afraid than it should and I don’t know why. I’m sat at the desk that now sits in the front room. My elbows rest upon the white, wooden surface as I look out at the garden and watch the gentle breeze blow through the trees at the very end of the pathway. It’s a gorgeous day outside, but with everything that’s going on around me, I still feel cold.

  “Who can I say is calling?” asks a really high-pitched woman at the other end of the phone. Each word she squeaks causes a god-awful clacking noise, and she sounds like she’s chewing a whole pack of gum in the corner of her mouth. My face automatically scrunches together as I move the receiver a little bit further away from my ear and curl my lip.

  “He doesn't know me,’” I eventually groan.

  “Okay, hold the line, please.” The sound of her popping the gum as she plants the phone down on a hard surface makes me scrub my face quickly in an attempt to erase the echo from my mind as quickly as possible.

  If she is anything to go by, I don’t hold out much hope for having a pleasant conversation with Paris’ boss at the club that she told me she worked at. We haven’t had much chance to talk, but, last night, during her brief clean up; she uttered a few awkward facts about where she’s been and what she’s been doing. She gave me enough ammo to work with for today, anyhow and for that, I am grateful.