When Darkness Ends (Moments in Boston #3) - Marni Mann Page 0,49

hang out with Gran on the couch and get every naughty story from your past, so I can tease you relentlessly.”

As she stared at me, her smile changed to one that was more emotional, and she eventually fell against my chest, where she wrapped her arms around and hugged me.

She didn’t need to say anything.

I could feel every word in her grip.

Thirty-Four

Kerry

I could barely call it a bed.

Thin, stuffed with what felt like wood chips, with still no covering or sheet, and hardly any cushion from the cement underneath.

That wasn’t the only thing that sucked down here.

There was no heat, no natural light.

Just stairs, cement, the bucket, and my doll—Beverly was what I’d named her.

Despite all the hell, I was a good girl.

I’d try my hardest to be.

When he put me in the wide-strapped white dress, I would hold in my tears. They were dripping on the inside but not on the outside.

Like the screams that shook me from within.

Like the words I wanted to call him.

Like the spit I wanted to shoot into his eyes.

He’d reward me for being good.

He’d bring me a book.

I’d read it over and over.

And when I was good again, he would replace it with a new one.

Except, once in a while, it was one he’d already given me.

Those were the times I wanted to be extra bad.

I didn’t dare.

When he handed me a paperback, it was always worn. Some would have a missing page or two. Corners would be dog-eared.

I wondered by whom.

If that person had things to do—ironing and cooking and running errands—and would set down the book, returning to it much later.

I was sure they weren’t put in a white dress.

Positive they weren’t being held in a fucking basement.

There were times when Ronald was feeling even more generous, and he would bring down a bag that didn’t have a white dress, but clean clothes for me to change into.

A bucket filled with water and some soap.

On those days, I would bathe.

I would dunk my head into the bucket after I washed my body and lather my greasy locks, urging the dirtiness to come free.

Waiting to feel a sense of relief other than constant grime and pain.

But that never came.

Clean no longer existed.

I could change, wash, soak, and I would still feel soiled.

And he would still take my picture despite how disgusting I was.

When I was dressed in white, he would make me pose.

Smile.

Turn my head as though I were a centerfold.

I didn’t know how many he took.

I didn’t know what he did with them.

I knew nothing … like how much time had passed.

But I could guess.

When my nails grew long enough to bite, I assumed it had been a week.

When I got my period, a month.

That was what my life had turned into, nail-biting and periods.

And playdates that I tried to block out.

And no voice.

It had been so long that I forgot what it was like to speak.

When he actually allowed me to answer, I wasn’t permitted to talk above a whisper.

I couldn’t even tell him how badly the hunger was getting to me, how the lack of consistent meals was causing my body to shrink away.

I was light-headed.

I was positive I was seeing things that weren’t there.

Beverly lifting her cotton-filled hand.

Beverly waving at me.

Beverly shouting, “STOP!”

She was in pain.

She needed me.

I pulled her into my arms, squeezing her, trying to give her all my comfort—the same way she had done to me many times.

You’re okay.

We’re going to get through this.

She was silent.

Still.

And then I heard, “FUCK!”

I squeezed her tighter.

My poor Beverly.

I would do anything to make her feel better.

I tried to stand, thinking a little pacing might help ease her, but my knees collapsed onto the cement.

I had no energy.

No stamina.

Everything was spinning.

I clung to her soft fabric, holding her against my chest, my face in her neck.

Talk to me.

Tell me what’s wrong.

“I can’t take this anymore!”

Oh, Beverly.

It’s okay.

I patted her back, holding her even tighter, wishing I had the strength to move the few inches to the bed so I could lay her down.

But I couldn’t.

I had to just stay right here.

I was so tired, and my eyes shut.

Until I heard another sound.

A high-pitched one.

Like a cry.

A scream.

A fighting word that came with spit.

“NO!”

Oh God, my poor Beverly …

Thirty-Five

After

Ashe

I punched in the security code at the front door of Dylan’s Back Bay townhouse, smelling barbeque the moment I walked in. He’d told me to come hungry. I’d been so busy at work, so I’d missed lunch, making me ravenous by