Page 49

I’m not the one who chose a control freak for a partner. Nor am I responsible for the hours of torture the man put me through each week, kneeling in a corner, facing the wall, or worse. My joints filling with broken glass while she sat back, keeping quiet.

Not wanting to rock the boat.

Not wanting him to turn that quiet and controlled fury on her.

Nothing I ever did was good enough. Nothing matched to his idealised concept of a ‘good daughter.’ Not even when he stripped my life bare.

No friends. No parties. No internet. No phone. No boys. No dates. Nolife.

The man turned me into the school pariah, leaving me without any social network to call upon for help. He isolated me until the kids who laughed and called me a freak were right.

I am a freak.

A clueless freak without any ability to judge what is and isn’t normal.

No wonder Kincaid helped himself. If my own mother can’t see my worth, why would the school psychopath be compelled to treat me like a person?

I shove the drawer closed and stand, moving to escape the memories.

In the wardrobe, I strike it lucky with an old duffel bag. There’s a morning-after tablet, and a crumpled foil of Panadol. I swallow both, fingers crossed they’ll work, and text the local sexual wellbeing clinic to schedule an appointment.

An auto-text confirms me into their next available slot, on Thursday, during fourth period. I can drive there during lunch and should be finished in time for my final class.

Back in the kitchen, I put the kettle on to boil again, my gaze coming to rest on a fruit knife beside the sink. My dull eyes stare at its sharp blade until I pick it up. It’s small and the faux wooden handle is splitting from use.

It fits perfectly in my hand and the blade is long enough to pierce Kincaid’s heart if I stab it straight into his chest.

A few practice thrusts bring me my first smile of the morning. I try various positions in my clothing, but there’s no easy way to disguise it on my person. My throat closes as I imagine trying to fish it from my kilt pocket while adrenaline screams through my veins.

Instead, I go into my bedroom and stash it under the pillow. A drawer would be safer, but I know how quickly he can physically overwhelm me. Better to have it as close as possible.

Encouraged, I try to think of other ways to resist the future Kincaid has planned. If only I hadn’t sent the five thousand to have the freezer removed, I could run. Take my chance up in Auckland. Lose myself in the country’s largest city where nobody knows me.

A nice idea… until the police search the garage and splash my photo across the TV news and internet.

My breath catches in my throat.

The appointment.

No.

No. No. No.

I dig out my phone and check my messages, already knowing there won’t be anything because the dark web guy said he wouldn’t contact me again.

He told me flat out that if I messed this up, there wouldn’t be another chance.

Five thousand dollars along with the trouble I landed myself in because of it—gone. Wasted.

With my heart pumping, I make myself walk to the garage, hoping against hope that when I pull open the door, the chest freezer will have been taken, despite the warning.

But it’s there. The power light glowing orange. Everything still piled on top.

I sink to the floor, back propped against the wall, and hope drains from my body until I’m too empty to even cry.

While Kincaid was amusing himself at my expense, the narrow window for removal came and went.

It’s all been for nothing.