Cut Me Free (6 page)

Angelo's is warm and inviting, even from across the street. Vivid red-and-white-checked curtains frame the windows and every table has a glowing candle. It's the kind of place I want to feel at home in, even if I don't.

My hair is still slightly damp from my second shower of the day. I'd been covered in filth when I'd gotten home, both mind and body. The water only seemed to help with the body. The image of the girl's dirty face, her mouth pleading for me to help her, won't leave me alone.

And Sam is only making it worse.

Go back, Piper. Please go back.

“I will, but I can't until he leaves her alone again,” I mutter, knowing that talking to myself in public is never a good plan.

Drawing my shoulders back, I cross the street and walk through the front door. The aroma of fresh-baked bread and spaghetti sauce nearly knocks me off my feet and my stomach rumbles for the first time today. A low murmur of people talking and laughing fills the room with cozy warmth. It's so new to me that I want to sit down and soak it in until my skin gets pruney. The girl at the host station is helping a couple to their table, but I don't see Cam, so I wait.

The wall by the door is dominated by pictures. Old and new, big groups and small, most are families with adults and children, but a few have people in chef uniforms—and I recognize the black jacket the hostess has on. I walk closer to a photo with a younger version of Cam, Lily, and a smaller girl with Lily's hair. Lily has one arm around each and they're grinning so wide I can count their teeth. A few adults stand behind them, and for the first time I wonder if they're related.

“Sorry.” Cam's voice comes from directly behind me, and I spin to face him. He has me pinned between him and the wall of photos. Before I can decide the best way to escape, he sees my panic and steps back. “Thanks for coming.”

The way he seems to read me makes me uncomfortable. I shift on my feet before turning back to the pictures. I reach my finger up and touch an engraving on the wooden frame. “Is she your sister?”

“Lily?” He turns to look at the frame, but I'm surprised to see him wince and close his eyes for a moment.

“Yes.” I study my fingers, rubbing my knuckles together, wondering why I'm anxious about his answer.

“No.”

“Oh.” I want to kick myself when it comes out sounding disappointed.

Cam laughs under his breath, but not low enough that I can't hear. “Do you want her to be?”

“No.” I keep my voice even and don't answer too fast. “I was just wondering.”

“That's too bad.” He gives the hostess a friendly wave as she hurries past, seeming frazzled.

I watch him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Gesturing for me to follow, he leads the way toward a waiting area off to one side that has a few empty benches. He acts like he didn't hear me. “Have you ever worked at a restaurant?”

“W-what?” I blink hard and try to figure out how the conversation ended up here.

“A restaurant?” He raises one eyebrow, and that damn smile is back. When I stare at him like an idiot instead of answering, he continues. “People come here to eat? They pay you?”

“Oh, no. I haven't.” When realization finally dawns, I frown. “I told you I didn't need help finding a job.”

“I know.” He steps closer and inclines his head toward the girl busily leading customers to tables. “But Mary is leaving and Angelo's really needs a hostess we can count on. Lily can show you how to do it. It's pretty simple.”

I run a hand along the back of a bench and raise one eyebrow at him. “Are you the manager here? Lawbreaker by day, Italian chef by night?”

“No, but Lily is one of the assistant managers. She can't cook to save her life.” He takes another step and I resist the urge to move away. “Our grandparents own it.”

I can see so many emotions in his eyes—laughter, hope, concern. I've never met someone who can let their guard down this way. It scares me.

With my small motion, he freezes, but his eyes don't change. “Lily is my cousin.”

“Oh, right.” My heart warms and it spreads up my neck to my cheeks. It's uncomfortable so I turn and take a seat on the bench. When he pivots to face me, his eyes are impossible to read. The sudden barrier I see there hurts more than I expect, and I don't know what changed.

“So, will you do it?”

I should say no. I know it, but I can't make the word come out. “You don't work here?”

“No, I help my aunt Jessie at her studio.”

“Studio?” I pride myself on how quickly I learn. I'd taught myself to read when I was little by watching the Parents' TV through a crack in the boards of the attic floor. The commercials were my favorite part. They always said words while printing them on the screen. There were words printed on the bars over the attic window. I'd hoped if I could know what they said it would tell me how to get them open and escape. But it was only the name of the company that made them. Even now, I devour books to keep learning, but “studio” is one of those hard words that have multiple meanings.

He shrugs. “What can I say? My side business isn't exactly legit. I like to know I can protect myself.”

“Okay.” So some kind of fighting place? I squint and tilt my head to one side. My mind tries to put Cam into a box that includes violence, but he doesn't fit there easily. “But Lily wants me to work here?”

“She will.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do.” He grins. The slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth tells me he's lying, but I don't call him on it as he continues. “Come on. I already know how you feel about being punctual. Who doesn't want that in an employee?” He winks, and in spite of his teasing, I find myself nodding without any further thought. When his grin widens and I see a flash of a dimple, I can't even bring myself to regret it.

“I do care about being punctual.”

“Yes, just apparently not when it comes to meeting me.”

He kind of has a point. I was late once, and when I was supposed to meet him with the money I hadn't even shown up. I move my lips to speak, but when I can't decide how to respond I just close them and wait.

“Great. I'll ask Lily to check the schedule and let you know when you can start training. Do you want to have dinner or should I walk you out?” He extends a hand to me, and this time he waits as I hesitate. His eyes are a challenge, daring me to take it. A fiery burst of anger flares inside me and I glare back as I slide to one side and slip off the bench without touching him.

“Don't.” My one word is a low growl, a warning to back off, to keep his distance.

People only cause pain, and I'm no different, even now. Hurt shines in his eyes as he drops his arm, and part of me wishes I could take it back. He turns away with a shake of his head and walks out of the waiting room. I'm left alone and I stretch my hand out before me, wondering what the heat from his touch would feel like. Longing for that tiny connection with humanity aches, and only fear helps me resist the urge to call for him to return.

Less than a minute passes before he leans back in the room and the guarded smile has returned. He lifts a hand to show me a bag with a to-go box tucked inside. “You can take this with you. The marinara will blow your mind.”

 

6

I'm beginning to seriously consider the merits of sleeping pills. It's pretty difficult to sleep with a little boy's voice talking nonstop in your head. The only way I got any rest last night was to give in to Sam. I promised I'd go back for the girl today. That I would not leave without her again.

No clue how I'm going to keep that promise.

The shade of the tree behind the man's apartment is quickly becoming my regular hangout. He is home, the girl probably locked beneath the stairs. I wait. The leaves above me rustle and I tingle with their restlessness. I stretch my fingers and rub them along my jeans over my knees and down to grip my ankles. The need to move, to be free to act, is overwhelming. She is so small and so helpless in her miniature prison.

I know exactly how she feels, how easy it is to be trapped in this world filled with monsters. But now I am free. Now I can move, and still I must wait.

I hate waiting.

The man moves through the apartment with no fear. I want to make him tremble with her fear the way I do. To feel the pain and terror he so enjoys causing. But I won't let myself give in to those urges—this is what separates me from him. Instead, I watch him from the shadows as he drinks another beer and makes a phone call.

He disappears from the kitchen for fifteen minutes. I keep checking my watch, wishing he would go away. When he comes back, his hair is wet and he's wearing black pants and a clean shirt. Now he doesn't look like someone capable of keeping a girl locked in a cupboard. He appears so normal I almost doubt myself, but I know better. The Parents seemed extremely normal—it meant nothing. They were monsters, too.

Tugging on a jacket, he sticks his phone in his pocket and heads for the front door. On the way out, he slams the palm of his hand against the door the girl is trapped behind. He mutters a few words and then leaves. I tug on the weeds and let them fall through my fingers, counting one hundred of them before allowing myself to hope. He's gone. This is my chance.

My heartbeat almost deafens me. For once, Sam is silent. I glance at the buildings around me. They're tall, dark, and still. They keep watch. The city sees what I'm doing. It knows everything, but the people don't. A few men sit on a porch at the end of the alley, but they're occupied with their own business. Several motels I'd stayed at across the country were in neighborhoods like this one. I'd learned quickly that no one would ask questions. When someone is hurt in these types of places, people close their curtains and turn their heads instead of running to help.

Darting across to the window, I decide to risk a cut from the remaining glass and kick the cardboard inside. Careful to avoid the jagged shards, I reach my hand in, unhook the latch, and slide the frame aside. In less than ten seconds, I'm standing in the apartment.

It isn't cold, but I shiver anyway. The weight of the bolt in my pocket lends me strength as I look around. Stacks of mail are scattered on the table. The same name printed on each: Steve Brothers. A sick laugh rises in my throat. A
brother
to whom exactly?

I keep my footsteps quiet as I cross the kitchen. My throat tightens and I think of the million different ways I could terrify this child. Crouching before the door, I brush the wood with the knuckles of one hand. The words don't want to come. “Hi, I'm here to rescue you.” It feels inadequate.

Just tell her you want to help her, silly.

Hearing Sam's voice gives me strength. I know—knew—him better than anyone. Is this girl really so different? I run my palm down the door, but before I can utter a word, I hear her.

“Hello?” she calls. Her voice isn't nearly as small or weak as I expect and it takes me by surprise.

“Hi,” I reply. Mine isn't as strong and I clear my throat. “Please don't be afraid. I want to help you.”

“Are you the girl by the window?” she asks, and I catch the first hint of suspicion in her tone.

“Yes.”

“You came back?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Now I hear them, the small quick breaths that show the fear even when her voice doesn't. “Who are you?”

I take a deep breath and let my body crumple to the floor. Pressing my fingers against my temples, I struggle for an answer to her impossible question. What do I say? That I'm a killer? A fake teenager with a stolen name? A girl who let my brother die and couldn't do anything to stop it?

“I'm you.” It's the only answer that makes sense at the moment. “Only older.”

It's quiet for so long that I wonder if she's decided not to talk to me anymore, and then I hear her slide away from the door.

“Please hurry.” All the strength in her voice is gone, drained. “I don't know how long he'll be gone.”

“Do you know where he keeps the key?”

“With him.” She sounds devastated. “Always with him.”

“Don't give up yet,” I mutter as I search the room. “I don't need a key.”

I find nothing in the kitchen or living room that is of any use. In the bedroom, I open the closet and lose the ability to breathe. Memories pinch, prod, and slice at me with visions of my past. So many ways to inflict pain, the closet is filled with different kinds of chains, gags, whips, nooses, spikes, and countless other things I wish I didn't recognize. The Father had a closet like this for his tools, too. This one is messier, a reflection of the man who made it. I hold tight to the bedpost and say a quick prayer to anyone listening, hoping Brothers hasn't used everything in his collection on that poor girl.

My foot bumps against something metal as I back up. I look down and there it is, exactly what I need to set her free—a baseball bat.

“Are you there?” I hear her calling from the kitchen, the soft words barely audible through her sobs. “Please don't leave me here.”

Swallowing back the disgust that sits in my throat like a ball of glue, I close the closet doors and hurry back to her.

“Don't worry. I'm not leaving without you.” I study the hinges and lock on the door, trying to decide the best place to hit. My hands squeeze the cold metal of the bat on impulse, itching to destroy something. “I made a promise.”

The crying stops. “To who?”

“That doesn't matter.” The latch the lock goes through is attached to old wood, the paint chipped and fading. If I hit that part just right, it should work. As I draw back to swing, a small squeak comes from the girl.

“Go! You have to hide!” Then I hear it, keys jangling at the front door. He's back.