Page 40 of Twisted Knight

Rhett emits a satisfied sigh that says everything and nothing. “So … what are we talking about?”

“You,” I deadpan. “And Piggy.” Another Lord of the Flies reference that has Chad darting a glance at his best friend before looking back at me with a perplexed expression. His eyes beg for clarification I won’t give.

I’ve gotten in his head. Perfect.

I’ve planted the seed that Rhett and Rowan are going to screw him. Rhett will soon think the same. And then Rowan will shortly thereafter.

Trust is a funny thing. It’s there … until it isn’t, and it doesn’t take much to erode it. A few white lies. A couple of suppositions. A lot of suspicion.

Fucking with them is going to be the fun part.

Watching their house of cards crumble, even more so.

When I look back over to Chad, he’s still staring at me. I lift a glass in mock toast and smile.

Let the fucking shell game begin.

TWELVE

Rowan

The room needs a facelift. Its walls are marked with yellow stains where water has leaked slowly and consistently. Its ceiling tiles are broken, if there at all, exposing wires, air ducts, and the ugliness that hides between floors. Its carpet is worn, faded to almost white in some places, and butts against scarred baseboards.

The women in the room look much like the room itself. A little worse for wear. Some with visible bruises while others harbor scars on the inside—between floors—where the damage is unseen but just as brutal.

That’s what makes the sight of them all the more jarring as they sit—some with eyes closed, others staring straight at me, a few with tears sliding silently down their cheeks—as they sway or become visibly impacted by the music I create. The cello’s melody is deliberately haunting. I’ve found it’s a therapy of sorts, a soundtrack to their pain, that they can get lost in without having to explain a single reason why.

Isn’t that what I did after Cassie died? Allowed myself to get lost in music? Allowed it to express the things I couldn’t?

The Sanctuary is a battered women’s shelter that has been here for over thirty years. Its only rules are simple: you must be sober, and you must be willing to trade something to be here. Chores. Childcare. Job training in whatever field you know. Food service. Anything to help better the place for everyone else who needs it.

In turn it provides a safe, secure place for women and their children who are trying to leave their abusers. It requires individual counseling sessions and group therapy.

The women who sit before me? I don’t know their stories. Where they’ve been. Who has bruised them. What other scars lie beneath that might never be spoken about or shared.

But they know they can count on me to be here once a week. That I’ll hold their hand as we talk or sit in silence or as a comfort to them as they cry. And that I’ll play music for them. That I’ll let them use the sounds to lose themselves for a little bit—whether it’s to provide a safe space for them to think more about what they’ve been through or to shut it out altogether.

My time spent here is not my societal good deed in the Rothschild name.

It’s not my way to try to make up for everything that Cassie was that I’m not.

It’s not even something I talk about in my circles because I feel like that would cheapen the experience and what it means to the women sitting in this room battling things my friends could only imagine battling.

It’s my way to give back. My way to carry on a tradition that Gran started years ago.

She wasn’t allowed to work and needed something to do with her time. She saw the humanity in this place, this organization. She saw what it did for other women who weren’t able to live the life she did merely because of who they were born to.

I stepped in for Gran in her later years, when her mind was going and she couldn’t fulfill her duties. Back then it was about honoring her and her commitment.

Now it’s a way to connect with people—real people. My world only cares about money, pride, and egos. None of those things matter here. There’s a simple beauty in that.

One that draws me back here week after week. Month after month.

Song after song.

I end my song, the last chord still vibrating through the room. Tears are wiped. Smiles are offered. A few nods are given when I meet their eyes, but I don’t allow them to clap for me. My being here has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them.

“Until next week,” I say and begin to pack my cello in its case while the ladies in the room shuffle to their feet. Some are off to counseling sessions. Others back to their children who are being watched for them so they can attend my music therapy. A few to meet with the staff lawyers to discuss the status of their pending cases against whoever has caused them to end up here.