Broken - Anniversary Edition (Broken Trilogy Book 4)

by J. L. Drake

  The hair on my neck stands up.

  “I’m thinking something that might have brought you comfort?”

  “No,” I shoot back quickly, remembering I desperately want someone to talk to, someone to trust, someone to be my friend. Hell, someone or something to love.

  “Okay.” Resting his head on his hand, he studies me.

  I see his chest rise and fall heavily.

  His lips press together before he speaks. “Can you tell me about the night you were taken?”

  I hear a door slam shut in my brain.

  “Time’s up, Doc,” I say, jumping to my feet. I can’t go there. I don’t want to.

  He stands too, placing his tablet on his chair.

  “Savannah,” he says.

  I stop mid-step.

  “I’ve been doing this for thirty years. I’ve seen a lot of patients and heard a lot of stories. You need my help, or this will destroy you. If you leave now, you’ll be looking over your shoulder, going mad waiting for those monsters to take you, and that’s no way to live. Take Logan’s offer. Stay and be safe, and take back your life. Only you can make that choice, but you have to want to fight. Don’t let them win.”

  I wipe my wet cheeks. His words cut me. Everything he says is true, and I know it.

  “Just think about it.” He opens the door for me.

  I walk out and make it to a nearby bathroom where I manage to pull myself together. Looking at my red, glossy eyes in the mirror, I know what I have to do. I fuss with my off-the-shoulder green sweater, making it hang correctly over my leggings. It’s funny how my obsessive need to fix myself in case I am being watched by the media comes right back to me. I wonder what else will surface over time.

  Chapter Four

  Savannah

  Okay, okay, you can do this. I bite my lip and knock on the door, waiting for the command to enter. It comes after a moment, and I slide my hand into the sword handle, squeeze, and push. Logan is sitting on the couch, leaning over the table and looking intently at his laptop. I wait, holding on to the door for support. I’m not sure how to even start this conversation.

  “Logan?” I whisper.

  He raises his head, and when he sees me, his eyes go wide and soften.

  “May I have a word with you?”

  His smile runs along his lips as he closes his laptop.

  “Of course, Savannah. Come in, take a seat.” He points to the couch in front of him. “How was your appointment with Dr. Roberts?”

  “Interesting.”

  “I can see that. Have you made your decision on whether you want to stay or go home?”

  I let out a long breath. Okay, here it goes. “I-I think I’d like to stay.”

  His expression speaks volumes, though I’m not sure why he cares so much. What am I to him but some head case?

  “That’s a smart idea, Savannah.” He moves over to his filing cabinet and pulls out some paperwork, which he places in front of me. “Like I said before, if you wish to stay, you’ll need to sign a few waivers, an NDA. That is a non-disclosure agreement.”

  I nod, glancing at the papers.

  “This is a document stating that while you’re here and after you leave, you will never give up the location of this house. You’ll never discuss why you’re here with anyone outside of this house. If you leave the property, you’ll have an escort with you at all times. That’s for your own protection as well as ours, Savannah. Someone could be following you, and you could lead them right back to us. Know that you can leave at any time, but there’s no coming back—we will not protect you a second time. Do you think you can handle all this, being under this much protection? This many rules? You will be totally isolated from your past life.”

  “I’ve already lost seven months of my life to those bastards. If this is what it takes to gain it back, then so be it.”

  I read everything carefully, making sure I understand every word.

  “Pen, please.” He hands me one from his breast pocket, and I stroke the pen over the black line—Savannah Miller.

  He holds out his hand. “Welcome to our house.”

  I slip my hand in his, noting how small mine is in comparison.

  Something flickers over his face, and he pulls away and leans back.

  I hop to my feet, not wanting to take up any more of his time. I need to get some air; I feel like I just signed my life away.

  I pause at the door. “Thank you, Logan, for saving me.”

  His smile reaches his eyes. “It was my pleasure, Savannah.”

  I find Abigail waist deep in laundry. She looks beyond stressed, and at the same time has a few of the guys asking her a million and one questions, so I leave her be. She doesn’t need to babysit me. I am familiar enough with the house and grounds now to be somewhat comfortable.

  I walk down to the lake and around the shore. It is becoming one of my favorite places. Everything is so quiet. Not ‘empty’ quiet the way my prison was. This is different. It’s a comfortable, peaceful place. I don’t feel as lonely because of all the wonderful, soft sounds that surround me. It’s funny how this kind of quiet isn’t really quiet at all. Knowing there are men hidden in trees all around also brings a sense of comfort. I miss my father terribly, and I miss Lynn even more. I even miss my job, but I think living in constant fear would destroy me more than the prison. Yes, the decision to stay is the right choice for me—at least, I hope.

  Poor Abigail is still pumping out laundry when I return several hours later. She looks exhausted, so I decide to help her out.

  I make my way into the kitchen and open the freezer, pulling out a mountain of steaks. I look at the calendar Abigail refers to every night and see there will be fifteen attending tonight’s dinner. I set out the meat to thaw while prepping the toppings. I wrap large potatoes in tin foil and chop enough carrots to feed a small army. I cut the bottoms off the asparagus and drizzle it with oil, salt, and pepper. While the oven heats, I peel and chop apples, tossing them into three large casserole dishes with cinnamon, sugar, and a little butter, putting an oat crumble over top.

  It shouldn’t surprise me that the barbecue is so huge—what isn’t huge around here? But nonetheless, it is very intimidating to light. I finally manage to fire it up and start the potatoes without setting the house on fire.

  Within an hour, the kitchen starts to smell lovely. I pull out the three apple crisps, setting them aside to cool.

  “What is that smell?” I hear someone yell, which is followed by heavy footsteps. “Good God, my mouth is actually watering!” Mark Lopez, the guy from last night, comes around the corner. “Hello, Savi.” He grins, looking around. “Are you cooking? Please tell me what that heavenly smell is.” He takes a seat on a stool opposite me at the island.

  “Apple crisp.” I point to the desserts on the counter.

  “Well, fuck me sideways…she speaks.” He raises a playful eyebrow.

  “She does,” I shoot back with a smirk. He cracks me up.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll order a pizza—” Abigail stops short when she enters the kitchen and hangs up her cell phone. “Savannah?” She looks shocked.

  Oh, no. Maybe I crossed a line doing this. Perhaps I should’ve stayed away. This is her thing to do.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her lips turn into a smile.

  “Savannah speaks now.” Mark grins up at her.

  She walks by, giving a playful smack to the back of his head. Taking in the kitchen with a look of amazement at all the food, her eyes dance over at me.

  “You did this?” she asks.

  “Yes, I’m sorry if I stepped over a line. I was—”

  “Sorry? Oh, dear, don’t be sorry.” Her cheeks flush. “Thank you for doing this. It’s so kind of you. You have no idea what a relief it is that someone noticed I need some help around here.” She leans in and gives me a huge hug.

  I stand stiffly at first but can’t deny the warmth I feel toward her. My arms slowly wrap around
her, embracing the affection. I feel a small chip of cement break off around my heart.

  “If you guys need a moment, I can leave.” Mark laughs. It’s such a male thing to joke at an emotional moment.

  “Go wash up. I know you boys just came from training.” She shoos him out of the kitchen.

  Mark sticks his finger in the sauce and pops some in his mouth.

  “Yum!”

  “Don’t make me come after you.” She gives him a stern look.

  He laughs all the way down the hallway.

  I am starting to see she’s the mother of the house, and they all respect her.

  I begin to feel self-conscious when everyone sits down for dinner.

  They all compliment me on how great the food is when they find out I made dinner for Abigail. Everything is piled on plates in the center of the table, and they all take turns helping themselves.

  Logan enters and takes a seat, apologizing for being late.

  Then York comes in and sits across from me. He winks at me as he takes his seat. Christ, he’s unsettling.

  Some people make small talk through dinner, mostly about the hockey game that is on tonight. I’m more focused on eating. Baby steps, I keep telling myself. I poke at a piece of potato. I know I have to force myself to eat more, but my stomach seems to be shrunk to the size of a pea.

  “Burke wasn’t the psychopath,” York says in an argument with his buddy across the table. I know what they are talking about right away.

  “Who cares? It’s just a movie.”

  “Tommy DeSimone was the psychopath,” I interject, making the entire table stop and stare.

  York gives me a strange look.

  Yeah, that’s right, creep. I have a voice. “Umm, Tommy was crazy, not Burke.” I look at his friend. “And it was actually a book first, called Wiseguy by a crime reporter named Nicholas Pileggi, published in January 1985. Five years later, it was made into the movie Goodfellas.” I suck in some air. I haven’t said this much at once in a very long time. It feels good.

  “Oh!” Mark laughs, pointing his knife at York. “You just got schooled!” The entire table bursts out laughing. York watches me while I struggle with the fact I just opened my mouth in front of so many people.

  “There was no question. Jimmy could plant you just as fast as shake your hand. It didn’t matter to him. At dinner, he could be the nicest guy in the world, but then he could blow you away for dessert.” He quotes the book, clearly showing off to me how he already knows all about the novel. I secretly wonder if he is threatening me for embarrassing him.

  “Chapter two, paragraph twenty-four,” I toss back. “Oh, and we’re having apple crisp for dessert. If you could hold off blowing me away until afterward, I’d appreciate it.”

  Logan breaks into laughter first. The rest of the guys follow.

  “She’s good,” Logan shouts over the roar of the table.

  York leans back and folds his arms, watching me. His eyes make my skin crawl. The noise at the table dies down except for the sound of some of the guys polishing off the last of the food when York pipes up again. Clearly, he had been thinking.

  “Savannah, you don’t strike me as someone who would read that kind of novel.” He stabs his last piece of steak.

  I hate that I flinch. I’m sure I’m giving off an uncomfortable vibe. It doesn’t go unnoticed, because a smirk appears on his face.

  “I’m trying to recall the last time I’ve seen a copy of that book.” He taps his finger against the table dramatically. “Oh, that’s right—it was on the little table in your cell.”

  My hand twitches, my fork bouncing loudly off my plate.

  “York.” Logan looks up from his meal.

  I stare at my hands on my lap as images of that room fight their way to the surface.

  “Little wooden table, right, with a stool?” he adds, and my stomach twists painfully.

  “Enough, York,” Logan warns in a clipped tone.

  I rise to my feet, desperate to get away from here, but Logan’s warm hand wraps around mine.

  “Savannah, please stay.”

  I stare down at him. I hate all the eyes on me, and I find myself rubbing my uneasy stomach.

  He looks at York and nods toward the door. York shakes his head, tosses back his beer, then leaves the table, muttering.

  “John,” Abigail says, breaking the tension in the room, and the man across from her raises his head. “Are you going into town tomorrow?”

  Logan still has my hand. I pull it away. I feel like I don’t belong here.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to start anything,” I whisper so only he can hear.

  The corners of his mouth turn up. “Are you kidding? It’s refreshing seeing someone take on York. He can be an ass sometimes.” He reaches for my hand again and tugs. “Please sit.”

  I sink back down into my chair.

  “Abigail, dinner was delicious.”

  “Thank Savannah—she made it all.”

  He looks back to me. “You made this?” he asks, surprised.

  I nod.

  “Don’t forget about the apple crisp,” Mark adds. “Speaking of…” He leans over to the table against the wall and picks up a bowl then sets the warm dessert in front us before diving right in.

  “Impressive. I guess we still have a lot to learn about you.” Logan grins and takes a serving for himself.

  Yes, something tells me their background checks wouldn’t include culinary skills. Despite my little spat with York, I’m feeling happy with myself. I helped Abigail when she needed it, and everyone seems pleased with dinner. The guys all thank me as they leave the table.

  “Good morning, Savannah.” Dr. Roberts catches me in the entryway on my way down to his office for our eight o’clock session. “I was thinking maybe we could have today’s session outside?”

  “Sure.” I follow him across the lawn and down to a covered chair swing. He sits next to me, which feels odd—normally he watches me face on.

  We sit in silence, watching an eight-man war canoe race effortlessly across the lake. I wonder who is on it. Mark, Logan, or maybe even York? The morning sun feels warm, but the clouds wrapping themselves around the mountains tell me it won’t last long. Perfect weather for Halloween, I guess. I let out an unexpected yawn, and the doctor shifts. I know the silence is about to end.

  “How have you been sleeping?”

  “Fine,” I lie.

  He glances over at me and waits.

  “Soon as I fall asleep, I’m right back in my prison.”

  “What happens when you’re there?”

  I shiver and close my eyes. “I’m alone again. I’m cold. I’m in a dirty, white nightgown and a brown sweater that’s way too big for me. I smell mold and rotting food. It’s making my stomach turn.” I rub my stomach. “Sometimes I wake up vomiting, sometimes I can’t wake up at all, but if I do, I feel restless and can’t go back to sleep.”

  “Is it the same dream every night, or does it change?”

  “It was the same up until last night. The fat man―”

  “Jose Jorge?” he asks, trying to follow me.

  “Yes, Jose. He shows up with my tray of food.” I pause, pushing my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I want to curse and scream, but I hold back, something I’m used to doing. “He liked the power he had over me. He was a real bully, for lack of a better word.”

  “Hmm.” He shakes his head.

  “What?”

  “Do you think the change in your dream was because of the situation with York at the dinner table last night?”

  I look up at him, confused. How did he know about that?

  He shrugs with a chuckle. “You made quite the impression with the guys. They like you.”

  I look back out over the water. That’s kind of nice to hear.

  “Perhaps,” I agree.

  “I can give you something—”

  “No, thank you,” I cut him off. I don’t want anything to alter my newfound feeling of freedom
.

  “Well, tell me if you change your mind.”

  The doctor doesn’t ask too many more questions about my prison, and I don’t offer up any more information. It is quite painful reliving it.

  “Tell me about your father, Savannah. What’s he like?”

  I pull my knees up to my chest, feeling the loss of a parent’s comfort. Things weren’t always great between us, and I have a lot of mental scars thanks to him, but he is still my dad.

  “We’re close enough.” I swallow past the lump. “We did the typical things together that a working parent could do. When I was younger, we fished and hiked. We didn’t get together much when he got deeper into the political world because he became a lot busier and stressed out. I didn’t help his stress level back then either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t used to the publicity I had as the mayor’s daughter. I hated it. I still do. I was never a party person or a troublemaker, but it seemed whenever I’d go out, somehow the paparazzi found me and would catch me in some compromising pose and spin an embarrassing story. I’d make the front page of some magazine, and my father would have to deal with the repercussions. It happened so often that I stopped going out at all. One time, I tripped over a drunk guy at a pub, and the story read that I was a drunk and needed AA. It nearly killed me when my father started to believe the lies. I just stopped trying to have a life of my own.” I stop talking and swallow again. “It was a year since I went to any kind of pub or bar, but one afternoon my friends from work insisted I join them to celebrate landing a new client. I did and had a wonderful time. It felt so good to be out. The next day, the day I was—” I stop, finding it hard to say the word.

  “Taken,” he says for me.

  “Yes. My friend Lynn came by with a copy of Us Weekly with me on the front showing off my backside. It had been Photoshopped, of course—my dress wasn’t that short. I was so angry that after so long the media would still peg me as a sloppy drunk. I barely drink as it is!” I shake my head. “Of course, my father was furious and told me we’d discuss it over dinner the next night. That never happened.” Goosebumps slowly inch up my arms. I take a long breath, trying to rein in my emotions. “I hate that my last conversation with my father was him being disappointed with me again.” The doctor hands me a tissue.