“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She cups my face, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “I’m here, and I will let no one hurt you ever again.”
The memory returns full force as I bolt upright in the bed, holding a palm to my cheek, as if I can magically conjure her soft touch. “Mom!” Tears leak out of my eyes as I cry out to the dark, silent room.
It’s no surprise I’ve dreamed of her.
Not after last night.
After she passed, whenever anything horrid happened, I’d dream of her. Like my subconscious knew how badly I needed her comfort and summoned her to a dream realm, because that’s as close as I’ll ever get to her.
I flop back on the bed, closing my eyes and wishing I was dead too.
But the sentiment doesn’t last long.
Last night, I indulged my grief, sobbing myself to sleep as intense pain laid siege to my body. It’s tempting to curl into a ball under the covers and never come up for air. But that would be selfish, because Father also included a list of all my other loved ones, threatening they’d share the same fate if I didn’t cooperate.
Everyone I care about is on that list. Even Madam and Liam from ballet, and Robert, my personal trainer.
I don’t doubt my father means every word of his threat, and I can’t have their deaths on my conscience too.
So, I’ve got to let this go. To tuck it away in the furthermost place in my mind to properly deal with at a later stage, because today is the day I plot my revenge.
And it can’t come fast enough.
Peeling back the covers, I swing my legs out of bed and stand, frothing at the mouth for vengeance.
I’m ready to get even. I don’t have it all worked out yet, but I know where to start—by becoming the obedient little girl he wants me to be.
The next three weeks crawl by at a snail’s pace, as I painstakingly put my plan into action, but finally, I’m ready to make my first move.
It’s six thirty a.m. and daylight has arrived as I stand by the window in my room, staring at the view outside. I have twenty minutes before Wyatt comes to get me for breakfast and five minutes before the supply trucks arrive.
I still have no idea where I am, because nobody will tell me. I’ve been working on Wyatt, but he’s scared shitless of my father, and all I could get him to admit was that I’m still in the US, which wasn’t of much help, as I’d already figured that out for myself.
I haven’t seen that bastard—I refuse to call him Father anymore even inside my head—since the day he broke my heart. My hands ball into fists as I stare out through the bars that cage me in, and I work hard to quell the rage that is always bubbling under the surface.
I try not to think about it.
Because I’ll fall apart if I do, and I must keep my wits about me.
Pressing my face to the bars, I sigh heavily as I skim my gaze over the acres and acres of rolling fields that stretch out in front of this facility. Orange- and yellow-tipped trees break up the bleak monotony, and they’re pretty to look at.
I’ve studied the landscape for clues.
The fields are bordered by fences, and I guess they usually hold livestock or maybe horses, and this is a ranch of some type. But that’s not very helpful, because I could be in any number of states.
In the distance is a cluster of buildings, spread out over a vast area with snow-capped mountains in the background. Sometimes, at night, I spot flashing lights and hints of activity at that compound. Occasionally, helicopters land in the dead of night, raising my suspicions.
My father didn’t know Atticus and company were planning on gate-crashing my engagement party. His reaction confirmed that. Yet, he could still get me out of the house and to here at short notice, which leads me to the conclusion I’m in Parkhurst.
Or a division of Parkhurst, because this building seems to house the medical wing.
It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
Meaning I’m somewhere in the west.
The rumble of an engine stirs me from my thoughts. Dust clouds mushroom in their wake as the usual supply trucks amble down the wide driveway toward us.
They come every Tuesday and Thursday mornings and on Fridays at seven p.m.
