Chapter 3
The days crawled by. I played my role perfectly — the obedient daughter, the little spy.
Every morning, I brought Dad his food. Every morning, he turned away from me.
"Get out," he said, his voice hollow. The light in his eyes dimmed more each day.
I set the plate down and backed away, always smiling, always pretending. But every night, after Mom and Grandma fell asleep, I crept to the storage room with bandages I'd stolen from Grandma's medicine cabinet.
Dad slept fitfully. I cleaned his wounds in the dark, wrapped his hand with trembling fingers, and left before dawn.
He never knew.
...
Thursday came. Marcus pulled his delivery truck up to the gate, punched in the code Mom gave him, and backed into the service entrance.
I was waiting by the milk crates.
"Hi, Mr. Marcus!" I chirped, sweet and innocent.
Marcus smiled at me, but his eyes were sad. He'd seen the bruises on Dad's wrists last month. He knew something was wrong here. But Grandma's family owned the local police, the judges, everyone. What could a delivery driver do?
"Hey there, little one. Helping with groceries today?"
I nodded and bounced on my heels. As he unloaded boxes, I slipped a folded piece of paper into the empty milk crate, just like he'd told me in my other life.
The note said: *My daddy is locked up. They hurt him. Please find someone far away. Not local police. FBI. Please. — Lily*
I'd written it in crayon to make it look childlike. But the words were clear.
Marcus loaded the empty crates back onto his truck. I watched him drive away and prayed.
...
Two weeks passed. Nothing happened.
I started to panic. Had Marcus not seen the note? Had he been too scared? Had Grandma's people intercepted it?
Dad was getting worse. Mom visited the storage room every night. I heard his muffled screams through the walls. She always emerged smiling, smoothing her hair.
Grandma noticed Dad's spirit fading and clicked her tongue. "If he stops eating again, force-feed him. I won't have him dying before he gives you another baby."
My blood ran cold.
Mom grinned. "Don't worry, Mother. I have ways of making him cooperate."
That night, I snuck to Dad's room. He was conscious, lying on his side with fresh marks on his neck. When he saw me, he flinched.
"What do you want?" he spat. "Come to report something else to your grandmother?"
I knelt beside him and held out a piece of bread I'd saved from dinner. "Daddy, please eat. You need your strength."
He slapped the bread from my hand. "Strength for what? So your mother can use me again? So you can watch and smile?"
His words cut deep, but I didn't cry. I picked up the bread, brushed it off, and set it beside him. Then I left without a word.
In the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall and bit my lip until it bled. *Hold on, Daddy. Please hold on.*
...
The third Thursday arrived. Marcus came with the delivery.
This time, he looked different. Nervous. His hands shook as he unloaded the boxes. When no one was watching, he crouched beside me and whispered.
"Lily, I got your note." His voice was barely audible. "I have a friend — ex-military, works with a federal task force now. He's looking into it. But he said it'll take time. Can you hold on?"
My heart hammered. I nodded quickly.
Marcus squeezed my shoulder. "You're very brave, little one. We'll get your daddy out."
As his truck disappeared down the road, I felt something I hadn't felt in two lifetimes:
Hope.
But that night, Grandma announced the news that turned everything upside down.
She sat at the dinner table, smiling her crocodile smile, and said, "Vivian, dear, I've found a buyer for the girl. He's offering two hundred thousand. He'll pick her up next month."
Mom didn't even look up from her plate. "Fine. She limps anyway. Not worth keeping."
Every morning, I brought Dad his food. Every morning, he turned away from me.
"Get out," he said, his voice hollow. The light in his eyes dimmed more each day.
I set the plate down and backed away, always smiling, always pretending. But every night, after Mom and Grandma fell asleep, I crept to the storage room with bandages I'd stolen from Grandma's medicine cabinet.
Dad slept fitfully. I cleaned his wounds in the dark, wrapped his hand with trembling fingers, and left before dawn.
He never knew.
...
Thursday came. Marcus pulled his delivery truck up to the gate, punched in the code Mom gave him, and backed into the service entrance.
I was waiting by the milk crates.
"Hi, Mr. Marcus!" I chirped, sweet and innocent.
Marcus smiled at me, but his eyes were sad. He'd seen the bruises on Dad's wrists last month. He knew something was wrong here. But Grandma's family owned the local police, the judges, everyone. What could a delivery driver do?
"Hey there, little one. Helping with groceries today?"
I nodded and bounced on my heels. As he unloaded boxes, I slipped a folded piece of paper into the empty milk crate, just like he'd told me in my other life.
The note said: *My daddy is locked up. They hurt him. Please find someone far away. Not local police. FBI. Please. — Lily*
I'd written it in crayon to make it look childlike. But the words were clear.
Marcus loaded the empty crates back onto his truck. I watched him drive away and prayed.
...
Two weeks passed. Nothing happened.
I started to panic. Had Marcus not seen the note? Had he been too scared? Had Grandma's people intercepted it?
Dad was getting worse. Mom visited the storage room every night. I heard his muffled screams through the walls. She always emerged smiling, smoothing her hair.
Grandma noticed Dad's spirit fading and clicked her tongue. "If he stops eating again, force-feed him. I won't have him dying before he gives you another baby."
My blood ran cold.
Mom grinned. "Don't worry, Mother. I have ways of making him cooperate."
That night, I snuck to Dad's room. He was conscious, lying on his side with fresh marks on his neck. When he saw me, he flinched.
"What do you want?" he spat. "Come to report something else to your grandmother?"
I knelt beside him and held out a piece of bread I'd saved from dinner. "Daddy, please eat. You need your strength."
He slapped the bread from my hand. "Strength for what? So your mother can use me again? So you can watch and smile?"
His words cut deep, but I didn't cry. I picked up the bread, brushed it off, and set it beside him. Then I left without a word.
In the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall and bit my lip until it bled. *Hold on, Daddy. Please hold on.*
...
The third Thursday arrived. Marcus came with the delivery.
This time, he looked different. Nervous. His hands shook as he unloaded the boxes. When no one was watching, he crouched beside me and whispered.
"Lily, I got your note." His voice was barely audible. "I have a friend — ex-military, works with a federal task force now. He's looking into it. But he said it'll take time. Can you hold on?"
My heart hammered. I nodded quickly.
Marcus squeezed my shoulder. "You're very brave, little one. We'll get your daddy out."
As his truck disappeared down the road, I felt something I hadn't felt in two lifetimes:
Hope.
But that night, Grandma announced the news that turned everything upside down.
She sat at the dinner table, smiling her crocodile smile, and said, "Vivian, dear, I've found a buyer for the girl. He's offering two hundred thousand. He'll pick her up next month."
Mom didn't even look up from her plate. "Fine. She limps anyway. Not worth keeping."