Nadia. I sucked in a long, slow breath. She had been so lovely once. Like Ida Jane. Bright, happy—then a man took that, her very life, from her. I’d played a part in her horror by begging Nadia to leave him.
If I hadn’t, maybe my sister would still be alive. I bit the inside of my cheek, focusing on the point of pain to keep myself from letting the bitterness of those memories spill over on Ida Jane.
My greatest hope was that one day, those despicable excuses for humanity would reap what they’d sown. I wanted him tortured by absolute hellfire.
Ida Jane glanced up at me, fidgety even as her single open eye darkened with desire. Why did she fight me—us—so? Because of Dillon? Yet another reason to hate the man.
“I’m all right. Stop fussing, Maxim. I’m not broken, and this’ll heal soon.”
“I can fuss if I want to. Now, let me take you home and pamper you.”
She shook her head, but her bruises brushed my shoulder, making her wince.
“I need to finish my session with Loulie.”
I pulled back, sorrow and concern washing over me. These emotions wereintense. I didn’t know what to do with them, where to put them, which meant I just had to feel them. I hated that more.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked up at me, naked need burning in her expression. After a long moment, I shook my head.
“I’ll wait,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said.
She moved back toward the little girl, talking to her about her painting. I moved to leave the room.
“Will you stay?” Loulie asked shyly.
“Me?” I asked, pointing to my chest.
“Yes.”
Ida Jane looked gobsmacked before she shifted her expression into one of neutrality and tipped her head toward the adult-size chairs in front of her desk. There were four small, colorful plastic chairs and a table in the center of the room, then more easels and a large chalkboard wall. She had another long table with craft supplies on the final wall. Her desk was in the corner, as unobtrusive as possible, with the chair I sat in.
“What does this mean?” Ida Jane asked, pointing at…a blob. The kid had slapped a lot of color on the page, and it all ran together in a torrent down into the trough at the bottom of the easel. I settled back in the chair, enjoying getting to see this side of Ida Jane.
“Well, at first it was my uncle.” She shivered in a way that told me—without any other comment that the uncle was a first-class bastard. Dammit. Now, I wanted to pummel some man I’d never met before into a pulp.
“But then, I heard what your boyfriend said, and I decided I like him better.”
“Than your uncle?” Ida Jane asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because even though your boyfriend is big, he’snice.” The little girl shot me a glance under her lashes.
“Oh? How can you tell?” Ida Jane asked.
“His eyes. See how they’re so shiny? Not dark…no that’s not the right word.” She scrunched her whole face tight, like a fist. “Shut. Like a door.”
I swallowed, realizing this child understood a lot about human nature—more than she had the words to explain.
“So if you see someone with shut-door eyes, what would you do?” Ida Jane asked.
The little girl rubbed her toe in a glob of paint. “I want to run away, but I can’t because then my mommy would be scared.”
