“And the police?” I asked. “They can’t help?”
“Pfff.” She waved the idea away as if it were a fly buzzing near her face. “The police. Men who protect each other. I tried, but they always took the monster’s side. So save yourself the call next time.”
“You knew I was down here with the police?”
“Of course.”
I sat up straighter. “Then why didn’t you show yourself? They could’ve helped you.”
She snapped her head toward me, frustration flaring in her face. “Did you not listen to a single word I just said?”
“No, no. I get it,” I said quickly, before she spiraled again. “The police often protect monsters.”
That part was true. Who hadn’t heard stories of rape victims ignored? Domestic abuse brushed off? Survivors discredited while the abuser walked free?
“Do you know who the monster is?” I asked. “So that I’ll know when I see him? I might need to run or defend myself.”
Her eyes dropped to the plate she was drying. “Monsters have many faces,” she said. She placed the plate in the cabinet, then reached for a pot and wiped it dry with the same cloth. “And I told you, you’re safe here. As long as I’m down here, the monster won’t hurt you.”
That wasn’t good enough for me.
“What does the monster look like? Does it live here?”
“You’re not strong enough. When you’re ready, I can show him to you. Until then, I can’t allow it.”
He.
“What makes you think I’m not strong enough to meet the monster here?”
A dry, sarcastic laugh slipped from her lips as she swept her hair over one shoulder. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her voice stayed sharp. “You don’t even know if I’m real. That tells me you’re not doing so good mentally right now. I’d almost say you’re worse off than I am. I never doubted the monster. Or my own mind.”
She paused, mugs in hand, staring at me. Her eyes caught the kitchen light—wide, reflective, too clear. “And I’m batshit crazy.”
A bitter taste rose in the back of my throat. She wasn’t wrong. Nothing about me screamed “stable” or “ready for a fight.” I glanced at the phone in my hand, checking the screen. The recording was still running, the timer counting up in red numbers beneath the REC button. At least that much was real.
“That scar,” she said suddenly, nodding in my direction. “Did a monster do that?”
I nodded.
My father.
Another kind of monster.
“Yeah. While my mom watched. So I guess we women can be monsters too.”
Her gaze lingered on me—searching, maybe seeing something familiar. She nodded slowly.
“A different sort of monster. But yes, we can, indeed.” Her voice had dropped. She almost sounded regretful.
Silence stretched between us. The only sounds were the soft clink of dishes meeting the cabinets and the low hum of the refrigerator. A faint scent of lavender dish soap floated from the sink, mixing oddly with the colder, basement air behind me.
Wait.
How had I not thought of this sooner?
“How do I get out of here?”
I rose abruptly, panic bubbling up into my chest. If Daniel found me down here, and all of this turned out to be some kind of hallucination again, it would be time for a psych ward.
