Page 112 of The Idol

His nostrils flared. “Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have let you go. Fuck!” Daddy stepped closer, lowering himself to my eye level, gripping my wrists as gently as he could without letting me pull away. “Where else?” he breathed. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The words stuck, blocked by panic and shame and the echo of Father’s voice calling meJudas, Jezebel, whore—

I shook my head helplessly, chest tightening.

Daddy’s eyes softened even as fear and wrath burned in them. “Baby, you have to tell me—”

A voice cut in sharply. “Agbayani.”

I flinched so violently I smacked into Daddy’s chest, instinct making me hide behind him before I could think. His arm came around me instantly.

One of the strangers stood a few feet away. I vaguely recognized him as the one who’d grabbed me earlier. He was handsome—skin a little darker than Daddy’s, a full beard, and short black hair that framed an angular face.

He stared at me too long—like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. His eyes narrowed, confused, almost… unsettled. Then he tore them away and focused on Daddy.

“Agbayani,” he repeated, clipped. “We need the kid in the van. Now.”

Ag…what? My confused thoughts snagged on the name.

I looked up at him, but Daddy’s expression didn’t shift—only hardened.

“He’s injured,” Daddy said flatly. “He needs to be seen by medical.”

“He can be checked later,” the man snapped. “Right now, he needs to be transported with the others—”

“No, Patel.” Daddy stepped between us more fully. “He’s hurt. I’m not sticking him in the back of a cargo van with thirty other terrified kids so he can bleed on the floor.”

The man Daddy called Patel scoffed. “Bleed—? Look at him, Agbayani, he’s in shock. That’s exactly why he needs to be with the others.”

“He needsme,” Daddy shot back, voice edged with steel.

Patel’s jaw twitched. “I heard what the kid was calling you.” His gaze slid to me again—strange, unreadable. “That’s not appropriate. And it’s sure as hell not continuing during federal custody. That shit won’t fly with the SAC.”

Daddy bristled, his grip on me tightening. “If you want him coherent enough to report anything, then I stay with him.”

Patel’s eyes flicked over my shaking frame, my ruined hands, the cut on my cheek, my wild breathing.

He hesitated, then cursed under his breath. “Fine. Medic van. But he stays restrained until the paramedics clear him.”

“Try to put cuffs on him,” Daddy warned, “and I swear to God I’ll—”

Patel lifted a hand sharply. “Don’t. Push. Me. Agbayani.”

The two men stared at each other, and I drifted again.

Everything felt underwater. Muffled. Slow.

“Come on, cherub,” Daddy whispered to me, guiding me away. “Let’s get you looked at. Easy now.”

I let him lead me. Not because I understood. Not because I trusted him—though I did, so much it hurt.

But because I couldn’t think anymore.

Couldn’t feel anything except shaking and shame and the burn of Father’s words in my ears.

Daddy helped me into a different vehicle this time—a white one, cleaner, quieter, with light glowing inside. A woman sat there, her expression warm and focused.

“Hi sweetheart,” she said gently, patting the cot. “Let’s get you sitting. Are you hurt anywhere?”