“Do all of what yourselves?” I probe.
“We learned on our own, and took care of each other when we were sick. We don’t need a teacher or doctor, we have everything we need right here,” she adamantly says.
“What’s your name?” I press.
“Girl,” she says.
“I’m sorry? Your name is what?” I question.
“We share a first name but have different middle ones,” the one from the corner, still wound tight in her blankets, proudly announces as if she didn’t just shatter my soul with her proclamation. “She’s Girl One and I’m Girl Two.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re both named Girl with numbers as your middle names? Is that the order of your birth?”
“Yes, I’m older,” the first woman says. “Which is why our father named me Girl One.” Theduhway she says this and the nonchalance in her tone tells me that they don’t understand how insignificant he’s made them.
As if their life has no meaning.
I don’t know how much more I can take or hear before I start losing my ever-loving shit and decimate this room in a fit of unadulterated anger. He’s not only a coward, kidnapper, and murderer, he’s the biggest piece of shit to ever inhabit this planet. I’m not going to break the news to them yet about theirnames, I’m going to keep that to myself until I can figure out what to do with them—I’m an asshole, but I’m not an unfeeling one. I’m going to abort that and concentrate on gaining information from them about their father and the women he’s taken against their will.
Knowing from dealing with other women suffering from Stockholm Syndrome that I have to approach them with tenderness before I tear apart their entire lives, I ask, “May I sit?”
“We have a guest!” the skittish one hollers, rushing out of her blanket burrito and running toward the cases of water underneath the wall-mounted shelf. “We have water but we’re running low on snacks.”
The way she’s ostentatiously shifted from a fickle kitten to a gracious hostess has me rapidly blinking. Girl One sighs and goes over to the side of their makeshift closet and pulls out a raggedy folding chair that has seen better days. I’m worried about its integrity, especially once I sit my ass in it. The damn thing looks like it’s hours away from falling apart and needing to be flung into the dumpster.
Once I’ve gently sat in the chair, Girl One leans over and hisses, “I thought you were going to leave once I answered your questions. Why are you still here?”
Girl Two squeaks, “We still have pickles!”
I flinch at that and rear back in my seat because out of everything I thought I was going to be forced to swallow, besides my pride and temper, soured pickle juice wasn’t one of them—it’s my motherfucking kryptonite.
To me, it’s like swallowing a gallon of undiluted vinegar.
Girl One giggles in delight when she recognizes my face blanche. “Not a fan?”
“Nope,” I answer, deciding honesty is better than lying to her. It’s not a pattern I want to start with them. I’ll never gain their confidence if I do.
“Too bad. Don’t hurt her feelings, got it?” she sneers.
“Loud and clear,” I grind out.
“Here! Sorry we don’t have any paper towels to wrap it in, we ran out a couple of days ago and Father hasn’t gone to the store.” The apologetic look on her face has me sending her a sharp smile.
Fuck!
This girl is so pure and unassuming that I fear what I’m about to do to that innocence. I’m going to blow her entire world up.
“We need to talk,” I say as sedately as possible, grabbing both the pickle and bottle of water from her outstretched hands with a nod of thanks.
Girl Two shakily reaches out and grasps her sister’s hand. By the crestfallen look on her face, I gather that she knows what I have to say isn’t going to be anything good.
“About Father?” she asks, swallowing back tears.
“Yeah, about your father,” I confirm.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
