Page 133 of The Bronze Garza

Ever since Russia, I’d made the decision to guard my mental headspace at all costs. Determined not to lose my sanity or give in to the need to numb myself with drugs. One method of doing so was to stick my head in the sand. It’s the reason I don’t fear or ask the serious questions. The reason I ignored the suspicions of Holly letting go of my hand the night I got ran over.

Thoughts, if not trained and controlled, can be deadlier than a bullet to the head. They can ruin you. Destroy you. Imprison you. Turn you into a villain, a psycho, a martyr. They feed on vulnerability like parasite, and once they take control of you, it’s borderline impossible to fully reclaim yourself.

So I took preemptive actions and locked myself into a cocoon of immaturity and sweet oblivion on purpose. Because it keeps me sane.

Sure, I could’ve pushed Dad to tell me what Red Cage found out and he would’ve told me. It’s mylifethat’s at stake, after all. But I chose to remain straddling the line, and trust thatTorinwill take care of it all, like he said he would.

Anyone else in my position would be curious, hungry for information, desperate to know who the villain is. Fearing, fretting, guarding. But the wires for those negative emotions have been snipped. Disabled. And I’ve no regrets.

Now, all my brain craves are good waves and vibrations, pulling me toward the things that makes me feelamazing. That makes me come alive.

Ignorance is bliss.

But mostly, I trust this man and his capabilities. Implicitly, I believe he’ll take care of it, and that I’ll come out on the other side smelling like daisies.

He delivered me unscathed from the jaws of Russia, didn’t he?

“Daddy’s been giving me the silent treatment,” I murmur. “You shouldn’t have told him about us.”

“You’re his world. He’ll get over it.”

The last time Mitch Henderson was this mad at me, was back in eighth grade when I’d snuck Holly’s boyfriend into my room so they could make out. He’d caught us when we were sneaking him back out, and I took the blame for Holly because, compared to Dad, Mr Wilson was a cold and harsh man.

Dad was livid, but he’d merely grounded me for a couple of weeks. I suppose now that he can’t ground me, the next best thing is the cold shoulder.

“Igor’s dead.”

“What?” I push up from his chest to look at him. “When? How?”

“Never told you this, but the people I did jobs for in Russia, who facilitated my plan to get you out, they’d also been working an angle,” he says. “Remember Dimitri?”

“Yeah?”

“He was a plant.”

“No way.”

“Along with two others who worked the lower floors. They’d been after him for something entirely different not related to the trafficking. Got word that the operation was a success,” he informs me. “Took down Igor and a couple bigger heads in the circle. He got killed in an exchange of fire.”

“You mean he wasmurdered,” I state rather than ask. “Because prison wouldn’t have held him for long. He had too much power. He would’ve gotten out.”

“Do you care?”

“No,” I say without a moment’s thought, then fold my arms on his chest and rest my chin atop them. “Did all the girls get out safely?”

“Yeah. But you probably won’t find any of the ‘diamond girls’ on the news.”

Just like no one will ever see me in the news, know where I’ve been or what I’ve suffered. But I’m glad I took the advice to heal in private. Going public would’ve done me more harm than good. I know that now.

To help in other ways, I’ve been donating generously to organizations with the mission to help put an end to human trafficking.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” I whisper after a long while. Rape. Slaps. Verbal abuse. Debasement. Starvation. Isolation. Degradation. All things I’ve suffered over and over by that man. He’s lived inside the crevices of my mind and haunted my dreams. Made me yearn for death. “I’m so, so glad he’s dead.”

To know those girls are free and that no one will ever suffer at his vile hands again makes me feel a different kind of peace.

A phone vibrates somewhere on the bed and Torin feels around until he finds it, answering, “Yeah?”... “When?”...”‘kay, be there in a few.”

He hangs up and trails the tip of one finger down the side of my face. “I’ve gotta go.”