I’ve been considering opening up an internship position in my office,” he explains, coming all the way inside despite her lack of invitation. “I feel that, especially with this merger, you might be an excellent candidate.”
“Me?” she asks again, her pitch more shrill this time. “Why not ask your daughter? Surely Cassandra would be better suited.”
He chuckles dismissively. “Cassandra’s ambitions are…elsewhere.”
Suddenly, the edges of her vision blur, then spiral inward with an urgency that doesn’t allow her to brace herself for the twisted rollercoaster ride she’s being sucked into.
Guilt, disgust and rage coalesce like waves in a sea storm, forcing themselves upon her like Mr. Sinclair’s very presence. But worse than that is the memories she’s helpless not to bear witness to. His memories.
Starring Cassandra.
Strike after strike, the crack of his belt as it smacks against the skin of her back that’s barely protected by a thin shirt. Cassandra, cowering on the floor as each blow makes her curl up tighter and smaller. The fear in her teary eyes and cries muffled by hands clasped to her mouth, and the sick satisfaction the image elicits in the man whose eyes Brielle’s seeing through.
More visions flash, flicker in and out of time and space. The setting changes. A different wall, different floor, sometimes a bed. And Cassandra ages in reverse, becoming younger and younger. But the scenario remains the same. Cassandra balled up in pain and terror, as her adoptive father beats her until he’s satisfied.
Using all the willpower she can muster, Brielle wrenches herself from the vision before it reaches its end, absolutely unwilling to witness any more.
“Ah, Richard, what are you doing here?”
She hears Frank’s voice, sees him approaching from her peripheral vision, but all she can do is stand in the same spot, holding the door open and staring blankly. The guilt twists and contorts in her belly and chest like a creature from Alien, threatening to burst out any second and cover Frank and Mr. Sinclair in horrifying gore in its eagerness to devour its originator.
“I wanted to see how you were coming along with the contract,” the despicable man says to Frank. “And to offer your daughter an internship with our firm.”
“Really?” Frank turns a surprised gaze to Brielle.
But she can’t really see him. All she can see is Cassandra’s humiliated face. The belt coming down. The bruises and welts and angry red flesh.
“She hasn’t yet responded.” Mr. Sinclair turns expectant steel eyes on Brielle. “What do you think?”
Not only no, but pitch no, never in a million years, over my dead body, not even when Hell freezes over or pigs fly.
“Excuse me,” she says, putting her hand to her mouth as the sting of bile claws at the back of her tongue. Without another word, she runs to the bathroom, slams and locks the door, and reaches the toilet just in time to hurl her partially digested pork chops into the porcelain bowl.
Poor Cassandra!
Deep down, Brielle always knew. Of course, she’d never thought twice about the long sleeved shirts Cassandra would randomly wear in the middle of summer. Or the way she’d snap at a girl friend who’d hug her the wrong way in the halls. Under all that sass, hatefulness, perfume and perfect blonde hair, Cassandra was hiding the evidence of her father’s abuse. All this time!
Overcome by the motley crew of dark and dirty emotions, tears flood over Brielle’s eyelids and down her cheeks.
I failed her. I was her best friend and I failed to save her from this monster!
Brielle weeps, stifling her sniffling attempts to breathe through the sobs so as not to alert anyone to her unexplainable sorrow.
“Bri, is everything okay in there?” Frank says, rapping on the other side of the door.
Brielle wipes her eyes and moistens her lips until she can speak. “Uh yeah, probably just had a bad pork chop. I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be in my office with Mr. Sinclair if you need anything.” He lingers a moment, then his footsteps fade down the hall.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket, the steady repetitive pattern telling her it’s a call. She pulls it out to see Tristan’s name on the screen. She swipes the answer button.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asks through her tight throat.
“Emergency meeting at HQ,” he says, the sound of his voice putting her on edge. “I need you here asap.”
Automatically, she replies, “I’ll be right there.”
She can only imagine that whatever reason Tristan had for calling the meeting can’t be good, but she’s honestly looking forward