“Don’t come any closer,” she seethes.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he tells her. “My name is Nova. I was hired to find the woman that was kidnapped by the owner of this house.”
That has me drawing back. Kidnapped?
“Father’s friend?” I ask, loosening the grip I have on my blanket and exposing myself to the newcomer. “They left. He said he wouldn’t be back for a week or so.”
His eyes swivel to me and I must look pathetic because his face pinches, his brows lower as he scans as much of me as he can see.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his question aimed at me.
“She’s fine,” my sister says between the gaps of her teeth. “Don’t talk to her. Ever.”
“Alright,” the man says, agreeing to her terms. “But you’ll talk to me, right?”
“If it’ll get you out of here faster, I will,” One spits out. I curve back into myself because I’ve never heard her sound so spiteful before.
Not even with Father, and never with me.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
NOVA
This woman is full of sass and vinegar. I find myself intrigued by her and her defense of the woman nestling in the corner of the basement as if she’s making herself a nest. There are a few things I need them to answer, but the primary ones being who they are and how long they’ve been here. But I have the feeling that pulling teeth would be easier than getting those answers out of them.
“What do you want to know?” the brave one asks.
I decide to start with a question that I think will be easier for them to digest and spill the beans about. “How long have y’all been here?”
“Here where?” she asks, sending me narrowed eyes.
“In this room. How long have you two been held here?” I continue, drawing in all the patience I can muster because I can tell by her personality that she’s going to be one of my biggest challenges to date.
“I’m not understanding what you want me to say. We’ve always been here,” she utters.
“You’ve always been here,” I repeat. “What does that mean? Can you be more specific?” I hate sounding like a broken record, but here I am being repetitive and going against my nature.
“Always,” she remarks, shrugging her shoulders as if what she’s saying isn’t going to have me reeling.
“Excuse me? Always,” I sputter.
“Yes, always,” she mimics, looking at me as if I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. And to her, I may not be but she’s not making things clear for me.
Then a thought that has my stomach bottoming to the pit of my belly and turning hits me. The frightened one called him ‘Father’ earlier when I asked his whereabouts, and why it took until now to sink in is something I’ll contemplate later. “Are you telling me you were born here?”
“We both were,” she tells me, waving at the other girl.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I blast out, talking to myself as my heart leaps in my chest. I can’t imagine what their lives have been like. “You two are his daughters?”
“Yes,” she seethes, her jaw tight as she spews that out. “He’s our father.”
It’s then I take a few minutes to really digest my surroundings. Lumps of blankets laid on top of a couple of lounge chair cushions. A mini fridge, burner, and microwave clustered together on a small floating shelf. Laundry neatly folded and placed into separate baskets surrounding the washer and dryer. A line strung across one wall with clothes hanging from it. A small, eighties-style television on a milk crate and books piled up neatly next to it.
“There’s no record of you whatsoever. No birth certificate, no school transcripts, no doctor appointments in the database… it’s as if you don’t exist,” I explain, trying to be tactful.
“We do all of that ourselves,” she informs me.
