That night, I danced with a half-dozen men as my punishment. I let them spin me in slow circles under the heavy chandelier while my brothers stood against the walls, their shoulders tight, their fists still curled from a fight they weren’t allowed to finish. I let the world believe I was the problem because it was easier that way. Because as long as they blamed me, my brothers would be safe.
Or so I thought. My skin pricks with goosebumps as I think about the number of men feeling me up that night. I was only twelve.
I slide into the leather seat without a word, the scent of tobacco and leather filling my lungs as Ford follows, settling beside me. The door shuts with a finality that makes my pulse jump.
Dex is slumped across the back row of the SUV in a perfectly pressed suit, asleep in his seat and snoring softly.
We pull away from the campus, the street lights flickering past in blurred streaks. I stare out the window, watching the university fade behind us. The morning stretches ahead as I feel myself become increasingly uncertain and full of questions.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The only sound is the faint hum of the tires against the pavement, Dex’s snores, and the rhythmic tap of Ford’s finger against the car door.
He’s thinking. Calculating. He always is.
I break the silence first. "Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or should I just embrace the suspense?" With wishful thinking, we won’t have to go home anymore and simply travel directly to my death sentence.
Ford exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. "New York."
Home it is.
Of course. That’s whereheis—our horrible Father.
I roll my head against the seat, turning to look at him. "And what exactly is waiting for me there?"
Ford doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls the silver flask from his coat pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes a measured sip before offering it to me. I don’t take it.
"You already know the answer," he says, watching me.
I do. But I want him to say it. I need to hear the words. The three of us aren’t known to chatter incessantly. We’re siblings of few words, but Ford can see I need him to say more. I’m counting on it.
"You know this has always been the plan," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "It’s just happening sooner than expected."
I cross my arms. "And why is that?"
Ford hesitates, and that alone sets me on edge. My brother never hesitates.
"Things are shifting," he finally says. "There’s pressure."
I turn my gaze back to the window, jaw tightening.
“Pressure from whom?”
He casts me a glance like I know better than to ask, and Dex lets out an obnoxiously timed loud snore, causing me to jump a little in my seat.
That tells me everything and nothing all at once. "And you? Are you under pressure, Ford?"
He lets out a hollow laugh. "Is that a serious question?"
"You and Dex," I press, my voice quieter now. "Are you under more pressure than usual?"
Ford doesn’t reply, but his grip on the flask tightens. As usual, his silence tells me more than words.
I glance toward the driver, but his eyes remain on the road, trained to be detached and uninterested in our conversation. Still, I lower my voice. "Why do I feel like this is going to go considerably worse than I anticipated?"
Ford looks at me then, really looks at me, and it scares me. The weight of his stare makes my throat tighten.
Then, just when I think he might finally give me what I want, he shakes his head. "Let it go, Martine."
Let it go. As if I ever could.
