“Tell me,” I ask, unwilling to end our conversation on this note. “Why don’t you want to go back to your old life?”
She remains quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Would you?”
“Would I?” I blink in confusion. “Would I what?”
“Would you want to go back to the Oakley days?”
My voice is cold again, but this time, it’s not directed at her. “That’s different. My father used to beat the shit out of me. I can’t hate him for it, though. That’s what gave me the drive to leave.”
“Why is it different?”
I hate that she’s making me feel slow. I click my tongue, annoyed. “Why iswhatdifferent?”
“You said your father beat you. Why is that different?”
Anger surges in me as I take in the meaning behind her words. She must see it, because she cringes back. It’s strange how one look can make her cower, but I can stripe her skin red and it barely fazes her. Though maybe it isn’t so strange, given what she’s just revealed.
I lean in, and though I see her body shudder, she stays still. “Where does your father live?”
“He’s dead,” she blurts out.
Right. I’d forgotten about the murder-suicide. Guess it makes sense, if he was abusive.
“Good.” Or maybe, not so good. Because I wish I could kill him myself.
“How about you?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Where’s your father?”
I smile at her curiosity, though I know I should be trying to quash it. It’s not a good trait to have, especially when you already have a big red target on your back. It’s a good thing she doesn’t seem to be aware of it, or I’m not sure what she’d do. I’m more thankful than ever that she seems clueless about the Cole thing.
Right now, though, all my worry fades at the sound of her cute, squeaky voice. I’ve never heard her speak so much. She really must be hungering for human connection.
“He’s not dead. At least, I don’t think so. I haven’t spoken to him in nearly twenty years.”
“How about your mother?”
“No idea. Haven’t seen her since she abandoned us when I was four.”
“Mine is dead,” she volunteers with a shrug. But I detect a note of sadness in her voice.
I stand up and walk around the table. She cringes from me again as I draw near, and I realize it’s not curiosity that’s made her ask questions. It’s a sort of courage. She’s trying to conquer her fear, but underneath, she’s terrified.
I gather her in my arms, feeling her tremble in my grasp. I sit down on the couch, settling her on me.
“Breathe,” I order, stroking her hair.
She does her best to obey, sucking in long gulps of air.
“Don’t ever make me punish you like that again,” I growl. “I don’t like it.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
I keep her close to me, stroking her until at last, she sinks into my chest, her eyes closing.
Before long, she’s asleep. She looks so beautiful like this, her face pressed to me, her pale cheeks infused with light pink. I wonder why she falls asleep so easily in my arms. Doesn’t she sleep well at night? I make a mental note to watch her more often when she’s in bed. I don’t usually look at the feed once she’s turned the lights off.
