I smile, nod, and then get to work. I manage to keep my distance enough. I slide into my work role with practiced ease. Everything has steps that I can follow easily. Logic keeps all my emotions at bay. Which means I can just exist.
I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again.
Everything I say is perfectly tailored to the situation. It’s all medical jargon that I’ve learned to tone down for the guys. And after the first hour, I actually believe that I can do this. I can pick up where I left off, pretend that nothing has happened in the last few weeks.
Then I go to check on one of the guys who was still recovering. I keep my eyes on him, trying to ignore the groans, grunts, and weight machines echoing in the workout room. As long as I stay focused, nothing can hurt me.
Until a hand wraps around my wrist.
It’s not painful, but the touch ignites a memory of my dad grabbing my wrist and throwing it against the table before locking me in place. I don’t know what sound left my throat, but when I feel myself choke on it, my eyes flick to Ben.
I rip myself free from him, my body trembling in fear. The sounds in the gym are nonexistent. All I can hear is my own ragged breathing, my pounding heart, and my dad hissing in my ear. I take a step back from Ben and I hurry to my own office. I shut the door, turn off the lights, then look around. I need an escape, I need a way to get away from the memories.
Anything to end the crackles of agony, fear, and the anticipation of horror that’s welling in my veins. I shake myhead, pinch myself, even try deep-breathing exercises that make me feel like I’m not getting enough oxygen.
Finally, I give in to the urge pumping through my body. I climb under my desk, sit down, wrap my arms around my legs, and bury my face in my hands.
“He can’t hurt me. He can’t hurt me. I’m safe. I’m safe,” I repeat again and again until the words lose meaning.
Logically, I know I’m safe. He’s dead. I killed him. But I just can’t function. I can’t force myself to let go of my legs even as I dig my nails into my skin to try to make myself focus on the present. I can’t breathe.
Nothing makes sense.
Absolutely nothing feels right and I can’t make a single coherent thought feel more real than my father screaming at me, my father touching me, his cruel eyes, the camera… It won’t end. It won’t die.
KNOX
It takes me two seconds to follow her into her office. Two very long seconds. One where I see Jaxon glowering at Ben, who looks just as confused and overwhelmed as Hope did as she hurried to the office. One where my feet start carrying me through the quiet workout room that’s slowly filling with confused whispers, wondering what happened to her.
But no one dares to say her name.
They just say “her” as if anything else will draw our attention.
Our first day back is supposed to be good, supposed to make Hope remember how capable she is. It’s supposed to remind her of the life she carved out even when it would have been impossible for anyone else to do it under the same circumstances. Instead, she’s hiding.
I open her office door and I’m plunged into darkness with a soft whisper that keeps repeating even though I don’t see her. My ears perk and I focus on the sounds.
“Can’t hurt… safe… safe… I’m… hurt… I’m… safe.” Hope’s panicked sentences fill the darkness.
I get down on my knees and find her under her desk, bent over so she fits. She’s protected on three out of four sides. She looks too small, too broken.
“Hope,” I breathe.
She doesn’t stop talking. Maybe she doesn’t hear me. Out of habit, I reach out to touch her but hesitate. I touch her shoe and she whimpers, trying to collapse in on herself. “Safe!”
“Hey, you’re safe. You’re at work, sweetheart. You have to breathe,” I say in the calmest voice I can manage.
She shakes her head and her voice gets louder. “No. No. No! Don’t touch me!”
“I won’t. I won’t touch you,” I say and move slightly closer. “It’s Knox. I’m right here. No one else is going to—”
She’s hyperventilating and wailing at the same time. Sobbing and trying to scream around the tears that keep rolling over her cheeks as she scratches her legs raw. I don’t know how to help with this. She lets out another sobbing howl that’s so laced with pain and fear that I can’t do anything but tremble under the weight of it.
I try again to pull her out from under the table, but she claws me. I don’t care. I can’t let her stay under there. I drag her out and she kicks, fights. Her eyes are flat, like she’s not here. She keeps making horrible gasping noises no matter how I try tocomfort her, calm her, petting her hair, holding her hands, none of it works.
Hope pleads, “Don’t hurt me! I’m good! Stop!”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Come back. You’re here. At work. With me. No one is going to hurt you. He can’t ever hurt you,” I soothe again and again.
