Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
My jaw tightens. “I moved with him the first time out of my home town because he said it would be better. New start, better job, more space. Then something would happen and we’d move again. We started in Monroe, Louisiana and by the end we were down in Saint Tammany Parish just north of New Orleans.
Jesus Christ.
“He didn’t like me making friends,” she shares softly. “Didn’t like me having anyone other than him. He’d say we needed a fresh start, but really he just wanted me cut off every time I got too comfortable. By the time we had Quinn, things had escalated with his obsession with me.”
Rage settles low and mean in my gut. “He hit you?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Not at first. It was a gradual thing. In the beginning, he would apologize. That turned into gifts, love bombing, apologies that meant less each time.” That answer is somehow worse. “He’d grab. Shake. Push me into walls. Throw things. Then cry after. Promise it would never happen again.” She swallows. “By the time Quinn was born, I was already trained, I guess would be the word. To keep things calm. To make myself smaller.”
I grip the edge of the table hard enough the wood creaks. “Don’t,” she says quietly.
“What?” I ask taming the madness crawling up inside me that this man treated Lucy this way.
“That look.”
I force my fingers to loosen. “What look?”
“The one where you’re deciding how to bury somebody. It’s over. I got away. I am building a life with my daughter and we are going to be okay.”
I don’t answer, which is probably answer enough.
She looks back at the water. “After Quinn, he got worse. Not always with fists. Sometimes it was just fear. Keeping us moving. Keeping me scared enough that leaving felt impossible because I’d have nowhere to go and no one who’d help.” She lets out a breath. “Then one night he shook me so hard I hit the kitchen counter and split my lip. Quinn saw it. As her little toddler fingers wiped blood from my chin and she kissed my boo-boo, I knew something had to change. For her.”
Every muscle in my body goes still. My voice comes out low and rough. “How old was she.”
“Two almost three.”
I can’t see straight for a second. Not literally. But enough changes in my features, Lucy notices. Of course she does.
“That was the last time,” she states. “I left a week later while he was gone. Packed what I could fit in my old car and drove.”
“This why you can’t shake him? For Quinn?”
“Because men like him don’t let go cleanly.”
No. They don’t.
“I kept running,” she continues. “Every time he got too close, I’d move again. I told myself it was for Quinn. That keeping us hidden was how I protected her.” She looks at me then, eyes bright but dry. “But after a while I realized I was teaching her to live scared. To always be ready to leave. And I was so tired of moving. Every move gave him power I was trying to reclaim.” The last words come out barely above a whisper. “So I settled in a small town, I lived in for a few years in elementary school when my dad was working off shore,” she states. “Freedom Falls is the first place I’ve stayed long enough to breathe. The first place I’ve looked at the door and thought maybe I don’t have to take Quinn and run tonight.” Her mouth shakes once, then steadies. “This is the first place I’ve had the courage to face him instead of just disappearing.”
For a second all I can hear is the water under the deck and the pounding of my own blood in my ears. A man shook her like a rag doll. A child saw it. And then they spent years moving from state to state because fear was easier than safety.
I have to work to keep my voice level. “Lucy.” She looks at me. “No one touches you or Quinn like that again.” The promise comes out cold enough to cut. Absolute.
She doesn’t flinch like I expect. Doesn’t laugh because she knows I mean it. She doesn’t tell me I can’t make promises like that. She doesn’t challenge the man I am despite everything she’s been through. She just watches me with those clear blue eyes and, after a beat, nods once.
And the quiet faith in that nod nearly undoes me.
“I believe you,” she says.
That might be the most dangerous confidence anyone’s ever given me. We don’t stay much longer after that.
The food’s gone cold anyway, and whatever lighter shape the evening started with has changed into something heavier. Not bad. Just real. On the ride back, Lucy holds onto me differently.
Still close. Less tentative. Like trust settled another inch deeper under her skin.