It Ends With Her

by Brianna Labuskes

  “Christ. No.” Sam shifted toward her. “No, kid. That was . . . inelegantly phrased. I just sometimes want you to live because you want to live. Not for me. Not for him. Not for anyone else. Just you. You want it. That’s what I want to see.”

  She was saved from answering by Anna’s soft moan as she shifted on the bed. Clarke shot to her feet.

  “Anna,” she said as softly as she could, not wanting to wake her if she wasn’t up. The girl looked so delicate, so small. She was all bones and bruises and crusted blood. Fresh, angry slashes crisscrossed ones that were starting to heal. On her face. On her arms. On skin that was now covered by clothes and blankets. No longer was she the girl in their picture with the glossy hair and full cheeks. She would never be that girl again.

  Clarke tried calling her name once more. “Anna.”

  The girl’s eyes flicked open, and horror gripped her features. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know she was safe.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Clarke said. “You’re safe. You’re in a hospital. I’m with the FBI. It’s okay.”

  Clarke continued murmuring reassurances until she saw the fear seep out of the girl’s muscles.

  Sam held back, knowing the sight of a burly man might not be what Anna needed at the moment, so Clarke took the lead in questioning. The nurses would be here any second to push them away.

  “Hi, Anna. My name is Clarke. I work with the FBI,” she told her again, making sure comprehension lit her eyes before continuing. “I need to ask you a few questions, okay?”

  Anna’s hand shot out, her fingers digging into Clarke’s forearm with a strength that was surprising, given her frail state. She half lifted off the bed, her mouth gasping out one word: “Bess.”

  “Bess. Is she alive? Anna, is she alive?” The electronic beeps were going nuts, and she heard the rush of footsteps just outside the door. “Anna. Is she alive?”

  “Bess.” But it was swallowed by the push and swirl of scrubs-clad nurses, a phalanx of soft blue nudging Clarke out of the way so they could tend to their patient.

  “Shit.” Clarke couldn’t bite it back, and it earned her a sharp glare from a particularly stout woman who looked like she wanted to take Clarke out at the knees—and was capable of doing it. Clarke held up her hands to show she was backing down.

  She snagged Sam’s arm on her way out of the room, tugging him along behind. “We lost our window.”

  “It was never going to be more than a crack anyway,” Sam said. And she knew he was right. For some reason, though, she’d hoped when Anna opened her eyes, she’d hold all the answers. And would willingly spill them at Clarke’s feet.

  Sam bumped her shoulder. “Coffee.”

  They hadn’t even finished their first cups, but she liked the idea of having something to do with her hands.

  The fluorescent lights were harsh against the black speckles in the tile, and the underlying buzz of the hospital at night became white noise to her scattered thoughts. It let her piece them together. Make a straight line out of them, when all they wanted to do was creep away into the dark places. She was stronger than that, though. She could handle this.

  The cafeteria was empty, and they set up camp in the far corner.

  Sam just let her sit. Let her be quiet and take some time. He’d pushed in his own way in Anna’s room. And now he knew Clarke well enough to know she was on the verge of giving in. Of accepting what needed to be done. And he would be there at the bottom when she finally fell into the abyss.

  She’d never been good at facing her problems head-on. When it came to assholes and killers and the big bads that went bump in the night, she was ruthless. They didn’t scare her, because she wasn’t scared of dying.

  Dealing with emotions was different, though. It hurt in a way that a knife to the gut couldn’t replicate. They were tiny lashes to vulnerable skin that never quite healed before being ripped open again.

  So she had gotten really good at numbing the pain with a bottle of Jack. Or the edge of a razor blade. Or even the look on Sam’s face when she lashed out and the strike landed on an already-bruised spot.

  It was how she functioned. Block feelings. Redirect. Lash out. Rinse and repeat, as needed.

  She felt it now, though. After seeing the last picture, after realizing what it meant. When she blinked, she saw the man’s face on the back of her lids, the woman’s smile in the moments before she opened her eyes again.

  And she wanted to ignore it. Or make someone else hurt so that she wasn’t alone, so that she wasn’t the only one living with this throb beneath her breastbone that just wouldn’t go away.

  There was little she held on to from her past. She knew that for some people, memories from childhood became rose tinted. They became snippets that told a story of a life reimagined in the kindest light possible.

  For Clarke, memories were dangerous things. Even when they didn’t lie, they rarely told the truth. And worst of all, they were endless in their ability to deliver the pain that she was so eager to escape.

  But there was a time she’d always hung on to. A brief period of light that never really formed into conscious thought. Instead, it came in flashes. The warmth of someone’s arms. A cascading giggle forced out by tickling fingers. The sunlight catching red hair.

  A man’s smile. The same smile in that picture.

  But the woman wasn’t in any of those fractured memories. The woman with her child and her loving gaze that tore holes in the only foundation Clarke had ever presumed to have.

  The baby. The girl cradled in gentle arms. This chase kept coming down to that, didn’t it? Why her, Cross? The blonde curls on the toddler that didn’t even hint at red.

  The clues. The patterns—the ones that had been broken and the ones that had been created just for her to see. Like delicate scars that traced over white skin. The past. The pictures that were about Clarke and, at the same time, not about Clarke.

  Why her, Cross? she’d asked while studying Bess’s face. One that seemed too familiar. Why her?

  It was no longer a question that needed answering. She pulled the phone from her pocket and thumbed to one of the most recent calls.

  A hand settled over hers, warm and sure. She glanced up, meeting Sam’s eyes.

  He didn’t say anything, but there was an echo there. Of that earlier conversation that he probably didn’t even remember. I’m proud of you.

  It was something to hold on to, and she needed that even if he didn’t say the words.

  She nodded and hit the number.

  “Lucas. Is there any property on your list that has a connection with the name Brodie?” she asked without any preamble when he answered after two rings. Her eyes didn’t waver from Sam’s as Lucas asked the inevitable follow-up question. “It was my father’s name.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ADELAIDE

  April 2002

  The shadows clung to Simon’s body even as he stepped into the kitchen light. He didn’t look like a kid anymore. Just last night, on the roof, Adelaide had seen a hint of softness in the slight pudge under his jaw, seen the limbs that hadn’t quite grown in yet, the stubble that was trying and failing to be a beard.

  But there was a new edge to him. A confidence, a smoothness in his movements that made her think he’d grown up in the moment he’d realized she’d left him.

  It didn’t bode well for her. Boys threw tantrums. Men killed.

  You’re actually right where I want you. Their little tableau had frozen the moment Simon had spoken those words. The air was suffocating, and she didn’t know what would break the tension, but she couldn’t hold out against it for much longer. It lapped at her skin, her nerve endings.

  Breathe.

  He was blocking their access to the phone. There was the back door, but it was a good ten feet across the entire room. In theory, between Mr. Cross and herself, they could overwhelm him. She caught Mr. Cross’s eye and saw the same thought there.

  But jus
t as he shifted, Simon moved. Quick—so that she didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late—he had his forearm wrapped around Adelaide’s windpipe. Air. Air. Air. Not again. She clawed desperately at him, her fingernails drawing blood. He didn’t relax his hold.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” he said, waving a blade that had materialized from somewhere. Had he had it the whole time? “Easy, easy. No one needs to be a hero here.”

  Sparkling stars popped at the edges of her vision. Air. Air. Limp. Go limp. It went against all her instincts, but she let herself become boneless, and the weight of her body concentrated into the sharp point of his elbow beneath her chin.

  “Umf,” he grunted, readjusting his hold so that he didn’t stumble. He didn’t let her go, but his arm came around her shoulders instead, pressing her unresponsive frame against his own to steady her. And there it was. Air. Glorious air. She drank it up in big gulps.

  “What do you want, Simon?” Mr. Cross finally asked, his voice tight, rippling with fury and contempt. His eyes were locked on Simon’s.

  “What do I want? What do I want?” Adelaide heard the smirk there even if she couldn’t see it. He wasn’t intimidated at all. That meant something. But there was still fuzziness in her brain. The soft clouds had settled in and weren’t clearing easily, even with the return of the blessed oxygen.

  Think. Why wasn’t he intimidated? He had a hostage. But he was still outnumbered.

  “I want you to suck a cock, to be honest,” Simon said, and Adelaide blanched even though out of everything she’d been through, that wasn’t really the thing that should have shocked her. “Preferably your own.”

  If possible, Mr. Cross’s face flushed a deeper red.

  “Simon,” Mrs. Cross chastised, unable to help herself. Would she ever? None of them spared her a glance, though. This was where the main action was. There was something deep and rough and broken between the two men, Adelaide realized.

  “Actually, I’d prefer it if you sucked mine,” Simon mused. “Imagine that. The great and powerful Thomas Cross down on his knees in front of the kid he threw away. Might make that happen, actually.”

  It was then Mr. Cross lunged—a flash of rage and movement. But in his focus he missed the thought that had kept hovering at the edge of Adelaide’s mind.

  Simon wasn’t scared.

  The tip of the blade dug into the vulnerable skin of her neck when a sharp, loud crack ripped through the fabric of the air, and Mr. Cross fell to the kitchen floor. Mrs. Cross screamed.

  Adelaide’s brain lagged, struggling to understand. What had happened?

  Only when the other man stepped through the doorway, gun still raised like they held them in gangster movies, did everything click. The man’s skin had an unhealthy pallor, pouched out by pockets of fat, and his hairline was creeping toward the back of his head, but there was still something there, a hint of the boy who came before them. The one who scowled out of a picture the Crosses kept on the bookshelf. Matthew.

  Simon had brought reinforcements. And who better than the man who had been thrown away first?

  “You better not have killed him,” Simon said, and the knife pressed in further, right on the verge of breaking skin. Her pulse fluttered underneath the steel.

  “Hey! Some thanks would be nice,” Matthew muttered, crossing over to the fallen man. He kicked him. Hard. Once to the kidneys. Once to the rib cage. Mrs. Cross sobbed at each blow.

  Mr. Cross groaned, a slurred, painful mewl against the abuse.

  “He’s alive,” Matthew confirmed, glancing up at Simon. As if they hadn’t all heard the pitiful noise Mr. Cross had made.

  “All right, I’m tired of this foreplay. Let’s go,” Simon said, and finally the knife pulled away from her throat. She thought she might be on the verge of passing out again. But there was no time for that. Simon relaxed his grip around her shoulders and bumped her forward with his body. He directed her over to an empty kitchen chair, making quick work of securing her there with rope he’d drawn from his pocket.

  “You,” Simon said, ignoring her now that she was tied up to his satisfaction and pointing at Mrs. Cross. “On your feet, you cow.”

  There was a weak protest from the floor, where Mr. Cross lay crumpled in the middle of a growing puddle of blood slipping into the little cracks in the tiles, staining them red.

  But Mr. Cross was in no shape to defend his wife. Simon pulled Mrs. Cross sharply, and she stumbled, her face a horrible mess of tears and snot. She met Adelaide’s eyes, and Adelaide didn’t even know what to do. She tried to soften her features, offer some sort of comfort. They all knew where this was headed, though. Who was she to offer false hope?

  “Grab him,” Simon called to Matthew as he dragged Mrs. Cross from the room. Matthew studied the lump of a body in front of him, disgust a mask over his features. He bent down, grunted, and heaved Mr. Cross over his shoulder. Then he followed Simon out of the kitchen without once glancing at Adelaide.

  “Oh, pet.” Simon’s voice was silk again when he came back to the kitchen. Adelaide had been working at the ropes, but they didn’t give. She’d thought of just standing up and crab-walking, but with her feet bound to the chair legs, it had turned out harder than she’d thought, and she’d almost toppled onto the tile. He’d walked in on her throwing her body weight toward the phone in the hopes of scooching the chair close enough.

  Adelaide’s stomach tightened as he stroked a finger down her cheek and then buried his face in her hair. Breathing in deep, he let his hands tangle in the strands. “Why did you leave me? Why would you leave me?”

  She had to lie. Had, at least, to try.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to. I just was overwhelmed by my feelings,” she said softly, as if shy. Her lips were almost pressed up against his throat, and she was sure he felt the warmth there. She tilted her head up, forcing him to let go of her curls, making him meet her gaze. If she could reach him . . . well, if anyone could, it was her, right? Maybe she could convince him. She just needed to say the right things. “I was a little scared by how much I felt.”

  His eyes warmed, just a degree, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He leaned down so that their mouths were a hairsbreadth from being pressed together. Just sharing each other’s air. It was more intimate than if he’d kissed her. He held himself there, still, so she moved, nudging forward so their lips touched. She felt his smile and relaxed into it.

  A second later her world exploded into white as his hand cracked against her cheek.

  “Oh, pet,” he said, and she knew something was off. He wasn’t angry. He was calm. Her face was on fire, tears running down her abused cheek, and he just kept that same expression of humor and affection. “When will you learn not to lie to me?”

  She sank back against the unrelenting wood of the chair. Fear threatened, a dark shadow ready to roll in over her brain. If she gave in to it, maybe her mind would go all fuzzy again. Maybe giving in to the fear was the only way to make it bearable.

  No. No. She wouldn’t go out a coward. She wouldn’t go quietly. She’d fight him tooth and nail.

  “Fuck off,” she said, the words braver than she felt. But it was a step in the right direction.

  “No, I don’t think I will, pet,” he said, sliding one of the other chairs over, its back to her, his legs spread wide, straddling the seat. “I’m not going anywhere at the moment. You and I. Well, we have some unfinished business to discuss before we move on to the more entertaining portions of the schedule.”

  She shuddered at that. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Why did you leave me?” he asked again, his eyes intense on her face. It was the first time she’d heard uncertainty. He really didn’t know why. “The truth this time, please.”

  “Because you kidnapped and raped me,” she finally answered. He wanted honesty? Honesty he would get. “And I thought you were going to kill me.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill you.”

  Wasn�
��t. Her mind stuttered over the past tense. “But you admit you kidnapped me. And then . . . ?”

  “We made love, pet,” he slurred, his eyes hooded.

  Her muscles were shaking, and she couldn’t seem to control the chattering of her teeth. She tried to keep herself focused, but the shivers in her bones seemed to wiggle into her brain, and her thoughts were jumping and scattered. “You’re delusional,” she said, at a loss for anything else.

  Faint smile lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “You’re just not seeing clearly.”

  “I am seeing clearly.” Anger sharpened the blurred edges. “And you want to know what I see? I see a psychopath, who, when dealt a bad hand in life, let himself turn into a monster instead of fighting to become something better.”

  “A bad hand? A bad hand?” His own rage was an answering crackle in the air. “Do you know how much they used to beat me? How they wouldn’t give me food for days? How they’d hold me down on my knees on the concrete in the basement and make me pray for hours until I couldn’t walk? All to get the demons out. A bad hand, Addie?”

  It was just his ragged breathing that filled the kitchen then.

  But no, she couldn’t believe him. The Crosses were strict, but nothing like that. They wouldn’t have done those things. She would have known. She would have known.

  “Precious Saint Adelaide never saw those things.” He kept going, and there was pure hatred in his eyes. She swallowed hard, and his eyes dipped to her throat. A deep breath and he had himself under control again. “You know what they did when you would tattle on me? Those were the worst times, because I was being a bad influence on their little angel.”

  He stood up and turned without waiting for an answer. Lifted his shirt. A gasp escaped. His back was a map of raised white ridges. Scars from being lashed.

  “No,” she whispered, her fingers begging to trace over the puckered skin.

  “A bad hand?” He quirked an eyebrow at her as he sat back down.