The Invincibles (Book 1): Trapped: A girl. A monster. A hero.

by Brittany Oldroyd

  I want to demand they help him. I want to yell at them. I want to hurt them. But I don’t. I can’t. I am not supposed to be here, not supposed to see this.

  The men in black suits don’t look at me, their backs to me, their eyes on the man before them.

  He is looking at me. He’s going to collapse but he’s watching me.

  And I can’t look away because he’s beautiful and captivating and he’s looking at me now and I can’t stop staring. At black hair I want to run my fingers through. At entrancing blue eyes, silver in sunlight. At lips turning up in a mischievous smile.

  He’s exhausted and sick but he’s smiling at me like everything is a game and no one knows he’s winning.

  The men yank him to his feet, guide him away. His eyes never leave mine and his lips are a smirk and they’re dragging him away and he doesn’t care.

  He’s gone.

  I breathe, lungs weak, heart wild. I’ve never been so drawn to someone before. I’ve never forgotten what air is before. I’ve never stared like that before.

  I shake my head, continue down the hall. My thoughts crack like broken glass. Who was he? Why was he there? What were they doing with him? Why did he look like he knew something no one else did?

  What is happening?

  I stop. The end of the hallway. Dalton. Not alone, nowhere I expect him to be, not mine. His arms are around her and she’s clinging to him and he’s kissing her.

  Cheater. Liar. Traitor.

  I step forward, knocking on the glass wall with cut up fingers that don’t feel anything anymore. He looks up and my fists are clenched and my head is high and my face is stone. Because I can’t believe it. I can’t believe him.

  All that talk about everything being okay, about making sure I stay safe, about hating the men who hurt me. Lies. Because he’s hurting me right now. Because he never meant a word of it. Because he was patronizing me. Because he was just bidding his time until he could meet up with this girl.

  “You backstabbing liar,” I say, anger dripping, eyes freezing over.

  The girl is mortified.

  I don’t care. I ignore her. I’m staring at him and she’s walking away and I’m wishing he was afraid of me like I’m afraid of being attacked again.

  This kind of hate is new to me. It’s vindictive and vengeful and I have never despised anyone as much as I despise him.

  He’s been toying with me, playing with me, manipulating me. He danced with my emotions and I thought what he wanted me to think because he made me, because it made sense, because he changed me. Gripping me until I told him everything about what happened to me. Making me feel guilty when I wasn’t under his power.

  It was a relationship to control just one more person. And I should have known better.

  “You’re unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head, spinning my thoughts. “I thought I could trust you. My mistake.”

  He’s stepping toward me and his face is so apologetic that I have to stop, I have to think, I have to remember to be angry.

  I am not his, I am not a puppet, I am not his ragdoll to toss around.

  Dalton grabs my wrist and my anger is ice. I jolt and his fingers are so tight around my wrist.

  “Let. Go.”

  I say the words through my teeth, through my icy heart, through my head that still wants to think he’s sorry.

  “No,” he says, so calm, so charismatic, so forceful. “That wasn’t—”

  He is not going to say that. He is not going to tell me what it was or what it wasn’t.

  But he is. Because he thinks I’m stupid, because he thinks I’ll listen, because he’s still trying to control me. But I’m not playing this game he seems to think he’s already won.

  “Don’t you dare make up excuses,” I snap. My words are venom and I hope they kill him. “I know what just happened and I know what you’ve been doing since the day we met. But I am done being your personal Barbie doll.”

  He yanks me close and his face is hard and I’m not sure what he thinks he can accomplish. I’m not going back but he’s acting like I will, like I have to.

  “You’re overreacting,” he tells me. “Nothing happened.”

  I step closer, body trembling, words menacing. “I can’t believe you think I’m that gullible. If you’re going to manipulate someone, know who they are.”

  I slam my high heel on his foot, the heels I wore for him, and he lets go, wearing a surprised expression.

  I leave, walk away. “In case you weren’t sure,” I throw over my shoulder, “We are through.”

  Fourteen

  Tears are inconvenient.

  Running through glass hallways, throwing away my heels, crying furiously, I’m angry. Because he lied to me, because he was supposed to be there for me, because he’s been controlling me for so long and I finally feel like

  Kate McCallister.

  I’m angry, reckless, violent.

  I hate him for taking that away, for turning me into something I’m not, for making me weak and vulnerable and needy.

  I hope no one sees my tears. My pride will be shredded, my attitude ruined. And I just got it back.

  No one sees me. But I run into rooms I don’t understand and hallways I don’t know how to navigate.

  I stop, standing next to an elevator, trying to figure out what to do. I’m barefoot and I’m lost and I’m standing in a building I shouldn’t be wandering.

  The elevator doors open and I should hide but I don’t. Fear is gone, sensibility is a lie, and I’m braver than I have been in months.

  And my mother steps out, surprise on her lips, a lecture in her eyes.

  But it stays there. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t reprimand me for my wandering, doesn’t order me away. She’s silent at the tears on my cheeks and the injuries on my skin.

  And now she’s wearing a strange look. Something crossing her mind for the first time. Her mouth is turned down and she’s studying my face carefully and I think she’s trying to memorize my expression.

  I wish she wouldn’t. Because I don’t want anyone to remember my tears or my weakness or my cowardice.

  My mother smiles sadly and now she’s crying and suddenly she’s hugging me.

  I’m still. Her arms are wrapped around me and my whole body is stiff with more than pain, more than fear.

  Shock.

  Because I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who to be. Because she never hugs me and I never touch her and Dalton made me his and I don’t know how to be Kate anymore.

  “What—”

  Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  I close my mouth.

  My mother takes my hands in hers. “I’m assuming today has not been your day.” And now there’s an arm around my shoulders and she’s guiding me away.

  “Where are we going?”

  She stops, smiles, pulls out her phone. “I’m calling Mr. Glass and then we are going home. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

  My jaw slips, my limbs are ice, my heart stands still. She never takes work off. Not for ballet recitals, not for vacations, not for sick days. She’s never missed a day of work. And I don’t understand. I can’t understand. Who is this woman?

  I watch her dial a number and press her ear to the phone, still guiding me down labyrinths of glass. A sharp breath and she’s talking now. “Yes, Sir.” She sounds so steady. “I already spoke with Dr. Pelletier. He will make sure the information is sent to you.”

  My mother stops for a moment, collecting herself, breathing in courage. Like this is the most frightening thing she’s ever had to do.

  “Sir, I am going to have to take the remainder of the day off. I have some family business to take care of.”

  Silence makes my mother frown. “Sir, I do understand that but this is very important. I’ve never missed a day, never called in sick, and, in your absence, there is little for me to do here.”

  She’s quiet again and now she’s sighing out her tension. “Thank you, Sir. I will see you whe
n you return to the office.”

  My mother snaps the phone closed, pockets it. “Well, that’s that.”

  We’re still walking and she’s studying my face and I’m wondering how she could possibly know where she’s going in this madhouse.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened today?”

  No. I don’t want to tell anyone ever again. I don’t want to remember the terror that overtook me. I don’t want to remember Dalton’s innocent expression as he pulled me back despite all my attempts to walk away. I don’t want to talk about any of it.

  “Maybe when we’re in the car,” I say.

  She nods, leads me down the hallways, walks us outside. I let out my breath. We didn’t run into anyone I know.

  Good. I don’t want to see Dalton’s smug face or Alec’s worried eyes or a hundred gossiping lips. I am not Dalton’s doll anymore, I am not the complacent child he made me.

  Unlocking the car, climbing into the driver’s side, my mother waits for me to get in, waits for me to explain myself.

  I sit down in the passenger seat but I’m not talking. Because I don’t know how to start, because she won’t believe anything I say, because I’m tired of being told what to do and who to be.

  We drive in silence, my mother humming softly, watching the road, watching me. I stare out the window. We’re pulling into the driveway when I freeze.

  I thought he’d left, hoped he gave up.

  But he’s standing there, watching us through the sunglasses. And I want to cry. Because I’m not free, I’ve never been free, I know I never will be free.

  No.

  My mother pulls into the garage and I’m breathing again. Because he will never touch me. Not now. Not again.

  I will be free.

  Together, we walk inside and I know she’s watching me, she’s still waiting for me to tell her everything. I don’t know how to do that though, I don’t know how to speak, act, be around her.

  My mother sets down her purse on the kitchen table. “Kate,” she says before I can run upstairs. “I won’t make you tell me what happened today, but please think about telling someone.”

  I want to tell her everything. Not just about Dalton. Everything.

  Because I’ve been alone for so long and I don’t know who else to trust and I want her to know everything. Because she’s looking at me so earnestly and her eyes are so sad and her mouth is so tired. Because she’s my mother today, not a woman who feels responsibility for me, but my mother.

  “Okay,” I’m saying, “I want you to know what happened.”

  She smiles, sits down on the couch, pats the seat next to her.

  I sit down. “Well, for starters, Dalton and I broke up.”

  Her smile is gone. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. Ignore my anger. “I’m glad. He was so manipulative and I couldn’t see past the romance.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I caught him cheating.”

  She stops. “What?” She makes a sound and I think she might be furious. “That good-for-nothing—”

  My mother stops herself. Takes a deep breath. Catches her kindness before it disappears.

  I stare. Because my mother is supposed to be compassionate and understanding and polite. Except she’s not. Not right now, not in this room, not to Dalton. And I’ve never heard her like this, never heard her start to insult anyone before.

  She’s looking at me now, studying my face. She touches my cheek with the back of her hand. “Did he hit you?”

  There is still anger in that soft voice, still danger in her words. And I wonder what she would do if the answer were yes.

  “No. That’s not from Dalton.”

  “But then…”

  “Mom.” The word feels funny in my mouth, out of place. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

  She stops. Because I never call her Mom, because I never tell her we need to talk, because I’m being more open than I have been my entire life.

  “Yes?” she asks, soft voice a gentle whisper.

  I’m not looking at her. Because she needs to know, because I’m not sure what she’ll say, because she’s my mother and I’m her daughter and this is the first day we’ve been this way.

  “I was seven when I first mentioned them. I don’t know if you remember. The men who follow me around.”

  “I do,” she whispers. Pain on her lips. Like something is crossing her mind for the first time. “But I didn’t believe you. I never thought they were real.”

  I wish.

  “They’re real, Mom.” I tap my cheek. Cringe away from my own touch. “He gave me this.”

  My mother is a statue. A ghost. Because they’re not supposed to be real and they hurt me and now she doesn’t know what she thinks. And I have to help her understand. Because she’s the only who can help me, the only one who can stand by me now.

  I yank off my scarf, showing her the quickly blackening bruise. And I’m watching her and her eyes are spilling over and she’s holding me tight.

  “Heavens, Kate,” she whispers. “What did he do?”

  “Grabbed me by the throat.”

  She’s staring again. Covering her mouth with a shaking hand. “Where else?”

  I sigh. Show her all my bruises and cuts. Tell her what one of them did to me, how he grabbed me twice, how I thought I was going to die.

  Her eyes are closed, her forehead tense. “This is my fault,” she mutters. “I should have seen it.”

  Yes. It is. You should have been there for me. You should have believed me. You should have done something to stop this.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  I stare at her, see her cringe. And now I’m unsure of her words, unsure if my angry thoughts reached my lips, unsure if I just accused her of every wrong I’ve ever felt.

  She sighs. “I got so caught up in everything, in changing things, in changing things, in remembering him, in protecting you.”

  “In protecting me?”

  Anger and rebellion define me, I think. Because I don’t know how to see it any other way. She never protected me. She was never around to do that. She was never a mother, never a friend, never anything.

  “You were never around to protect me!” I’m furious. “I’ve been alone all my life!”

  She’s crying. “Because you never needed me!”

  I stop. “What?”

  “You’ve always been so independent. You never needed anyone.”

  I’m shaking my head. Staring at her. “That’s not true. I needed you. I needed you because I was an angry little girl without a father and I needed someone who wouldn’t push me away like everyone else. I just…” I pause. Try to make sense of my thoughts. “I just didn’t know how to tell you what I needed. I never have.”

  She hugs me again. “Oh, Kate. I’m sorry.”

  “How were you protecting me?”

  She leans back, agony in crystalline eyes. “How did your father die?”

  “A car crash,” I answer easily, automatically.

  “I hate that it seemed that way.”

  I’m quiet. Because I don’t understand, because she isn’t making sense, because I don’t know what words just came out of her mouth.

  “That wasn’t a car crash,” she says, so quiet she’s mouthing the words. “It was murder.”

  Time is still, frozen in her mouth with that last word. Murder.

  “Are you…” The words are so careful, so unsure. Because this shakes who I am and who she is and I don’t know, don’t understand, don’t comprehend this new world. “Are you saying someone killed Dad?”

  Her eyes are closed. “I was on the phone with him when it happened,” she whispers, her voice very quiet and sad enough to break my heart. “We’d been divorced for months. I hadn’t had you yet. He called and I couldn’t bear to ignore him anymore.”

  I study her face, watch her grief. Because somehow everything makes sense now. I can see her. A young woman, pregnant, divorce
d. What would it have been like to have me? To sit in a hospital bed without a soul to help her through the pregnancy? To know that she would be raising a child with no help? It’s a frightening idea.

  “He called me while on the drive,” Mom says. “I remember because it was so loud. Your father always loved fast cars. He called me back on the drive back from an assignment.” She stops, her lips quiver. “He said that he’d figured it out. He said everything made sense now and he hated himself for not seeing it sooner. He told me he took back everything he’d said and he wished we could be together again. For just a moment, I hoped we would be.

  “But then he told me they’d found him. He said he was boxed in. They were going to kill him before he could tell anyone what he discovered,” she says and now she’s crying again. “He was so calm. Nothing ever scared your father. He was so reckless. I remember he said he wasn’t going to make it off the road. He told me he was sorry, that he loved me.

  “I never stopped loving him. I told him that. He was the only man I’ve ever loved and no one could ever be what Jackson was to me.” She’s smiling through her tears. “I told him he was going to have a daughter.”

  She laughs but the sound is almost hysterical with pain and grief. “He told me to make sure you knew how to throw a punch.”

  I’m not sure if I want to smile or cry.

  “And then that was it,” she whispers. “He said goodbye and he never returned to Chicago. They said he lost control of the car and it rolled. But I knew what happened. They forced him off the road, killed him. They murdered him.”

  She loses it. Sobbing, shaking.

  I don’t know what else to do. I wrap my arms around her, let her cry on my shoulder. I don’t know we got here, how we went from me crying about the attacks to her sobbing over the man she loved.

  But we have.

  And now I’m crying too. Crying for a father I never knew, crying for the woman who raised a child alone because someone decided Jackson McCallister had to do.

  And I will never forgive them for it.

  Fifteen

  “I still don’t understand. How have you protected me?”