The Quiet Ones
Page 25
She wasn’t writing a journalist’s expose about Sanctuary and the international human trafficking and organ harvesting operation her mentally ill sister had spearheaded. She was writing a novel about two sisters, a book for young adults—a story for girls like they had once been and that had populated Sanctuary, young women who finally learned to discover their own voice.
Her working title was The Quiet Ones. Some publisher might want to change it, but the title seemed to fit perfectly, and if she didn’t find a publisher, she might publish it herself.
“How’s the art coming along?” Mallory asked.
“A lot better.” Liz opened her sketch pad. “I did this one for you. It’s not scary, promise.”
When Liz had first started practicing her art again during her imprisonment, she had drawn upon fragmented, nightmarish imagery that had been too terrifying for Mallory to view. Gradually, her work evolved to softer topics, such as sketches of her children from her memories of when they were babies. That had been tough to see, too: Mallory had to reveal that Tabitha had taken her own life and that Nimrod had been gunned down by federal officers outside the stable when he resisted capture. Liz claimed that she didn’t remember much of it, that many of the events she had engineered floated at the fringes of her mind like a dream you couldn’t quite recall.
The aftermath that had played out in the legal system was a different matter, everything hashed out in minute detail for the world to see. Dr. Faustin had been arrested at the airport while trying to board a flight to Senegal, and later served as a key witness for the prosecution against Liz in exchange for a reduced sentence. Eleven young women working in Sanctuary and nine women held at the stable had been freed and were undergoing therapy to regain their speech and recover from the abuse. The women distributed to the men throughout town had been freed, too; authorities were still working to locate the hundreds of other victims who had been sold elsewhere over the years. Conspirators such as Chief Norwood, Milton Grey, and many others had all been successfully convicted of several felonies for the roles they had played in the trafficking ring. Nana, the first Father’s mother, had been sent to a nursing home in Valdosta, her brain so addled that prosecutors took mercy on her. Even Martha Taylor had kept her word and provided a witness statement—anonymously, of course.
Oftentimes when Mallory would visit her, Liz would bow her head and tearfully beg for forgiveness. I forgive you, Mallory would say. But you did so many awful things to so many innocent girls just like we used to be, that you can never make amends for your actions and you’ll never be free again, I’m sorry.
Her chains clinking, Liz rotated the sketch pad on the table so Mallory could see her latest piece. It was a stunningly detailed recreation of their favorite family photograph, drawn in black pencil: Mallory, Liz, and their mother at Callaway Gardens on that fine and perfect day. The only artistic embellishment was the butterfly that alighted on Mallory’ head, wings spread.
“Wow, sis,” Mallory said. “This is so . . . I don’t even know what to say.”
A real monarch butterfly—a species Mallory rarely saw these days—flickered around their table and landed on the corner of the sketch pad.
“Butterfly approved, you think?” Liz winked, and Mallory laughed.
For the rest of Mallory’s visit, they talked about old times, the good ones, and laughed and cried as they reminisced. Then Mallory hugged her, and reluctantly left her sister in the custody of the prison guards, promising to return next week.
Sniffling, Liz watched her sister depart.
She flipped to the last sheet of her sketch pad, where she kept another new drawing she had recently completed, but had been careful to hide from Mallory.
Nevertheless, she was proud of her accomplishment. It was, perhaps, the best piece she had done in months.
In her drawing, the bearded man wearing the tinted glasses held his index finger to his lips in the gesture of silence.
Be quiet, child, she imagined he was telling her, in the hypnotic voice that often haunted her dreams. I promise, it will always be our little secret.
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Also by Brandon Massey
Novels
Thunderland
Dark Corner
Within the Shadows
The Other Brother
Vicious
The Last Affair
Don’t Ever Tell
Cornered
Covenant
In the Dark
Frenzied
Nana
Collections
Twisted Tales
The Ancestors
Dark Dreams I – III
About Brandon Massey
Brandon Massey was born June 9, 1973 and grew up in Zion, Illinois. He lives with his family near Atlanta, Georgia, where he is at work on his next novel. Visit his web site at www.brandonmassey.com for the latest news on his upcoming books.