Chapter 4
Grandma was selling me. One month. That's all the time I had left.
I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, my hands still wet from washing dishes. Grandma glanced at me and smiled. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Your new family will take very good care of you."
I knew exactly what "new family" meant. In my past life, Grandma had sold three other children from the estate to men who collected broken things. Kids with limps, kids with scars — they paid premium prices for damaged ones.
One month. I had one month to get Dad out.
I couldn't wait for Marcus's federal friend anymore. I couldn't wait for anyone.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, revising every detail of my plan. The gate code. The security cameras. Mom's schedule. Grandma's medication routine.
Every Wednesday night, Grandma took her sleeping pills at nine and was unconscious by nine-thirty. Mom usually drank wine in her bedroom until eleven, then passed out. The cameras had a blind spot along the east wall — I'd mapped it in my previous life.
The problem was Dad. He was weak. He could barely walk. And he didn't trust me.
I needed him to run, but he would rather die than follow me anywhere.
...
The next morning, I brought Dad his breakfast. He was sitting up against the wall, staring at nothing. The chain around his ankle had rubbed his skin raw.
I set down the tray and said softly, "Daddy, do you remember the lullaby you used to sing to me? The one about the bird flying home?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Memory. He quickly buried it.
"I don't sing to traitors," he said.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, just out of his reach. "Daddy, if a bird's cage was opened, would it fly away? Even if it didn't trust the person who opened it?"
Dad stared at me. For the first time in weeks, he really looked at me. His brow furrowed slightly, confused.
I stood up and brushed off my dress. "A bird would fly, Daddy. Even if it hated the hand that opened the door."
I left before he could respond.
...
I couldn't tell Dad my plan directly. If Mom or Grandma noticed any shift in his behavior, they'd suspect something. So I worked in silence.
Every night, I practiced the route. Storage room, east hallway, service door, blind spot along the wall, gate. I timed it. Eight minutes at a walking pace. Twelve if someone was limping.
I stole painkillers from Grandma's cabinet, one pill at a time. I hid them in a crack in the storage room wall where Dad could reach them. I left no note — just placed them where his hand rested while he slept.
The first night, he didn't notice. The second night, he found them. I watched through the door crack as he stared at the pills, confused. Then slowly, carefully, he swallowed them.
Good. His hand would heal faster with less pain.
I also began hoarding food — crackers, dried fruit, anything non-perishable that wouldn't be missed. I hid them inside my stuffed rabbit, whose seams I'd carefully opened and resewn.
Two weeks until the buyer came for me. Two weeks until I was gone forever.
...
On Thursday, Marcus came again. His face was grim.
"Lily," he whispered, barely moving his lips, "my friend says the investigation is moving, but they need at least two more months. Can you wait?"
Two months. I didn't have two months. I didn't even have two weeks.
I looked up at Marcus and shook my head slowly. "Mr. Marcus, I need you to do something for me. On Wednesday night, the twenty-third, park your truck on Ridgemont Road at ten o'clock. Leave the back door unlocked. Can you do that?"
Marcus stared at me. Something shifted in his expression — he was seeing me, really seeing me, for the first time. Not a helpless child. Something else.
"How old are you?" he whispered.
"Old enough to know that if we wait, my daddy dies." I held his gaze without blinking. "Please."
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Ten o'clock. Ridgemont Road."
...
That night, I finalized everything.
Wednesday the twenty-third was nine days away. Grandma's sleeping pills. Mom's wine — I would crush two of Grandma's pills into it to make sure she stayed down. The chain on Dad's ankle used a padlock, and I knew where Mom kept the key: inside the hollow base of her bedside lamp.
Nine days.
But the next morning, Grandma made an announcement at breakfast that made my stomach drop.
"The buyer moved up his schedule. He's coming this Saturday."
Saturday. That was four days away.
I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, my hands still wet from washing dishes. Grandma glanced at me and smiled. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Your new family will take very good care of you."
I knew exactly what "new family" meant. In my past life, Grandma had sold three other children from the estate to men who collected broken things. Kids with limps, kids with scars — they paid premium prices for damaged ones.
One month. I had one month to get Dad out.
I couldn't wait for Marcus's federal friend anymore. I couldn't wait for anyone.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, revising every detail of my plan. The gate code. The security cameras. Mom's schedule. Grandma's medication routine.
Every Wednesday night, Grandma took her sleeping pills at nine and was unconscious by nine-thirty. Mom usually drank wine in her bedroom until eleven, then passed out. The cameras had a blind spot along the east wall — I'd mapped it in my previous life.
The problem was Dad. He was weak. He could barely walk. And he didn't trust me.
I needed him to run, but he would rather die than follow me anywhere.
...
The next morning, I brought Dad his breakfast. He was sitting up against the wall, staring at nothing. The chain around his ankle had rubbed his skin raw.
I set down the tray and said softly, "Daddy, do you remember the lullaby you used to sing to me? The one about the bird flying home?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Memory. He quickly buried it.
"I don't sing to traitors," he said.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, just out of his reach. "Daddy, if a bird's cage was opened, would it fly away? Even if it didn't trust the person who opened it?"
Dad stared at me. For the first time in weeks, he really looked at me. His brow furrowed slightly, confused.
I stood up and brushed off my dress. "A bird would fly, Daddy. Even if it hated the hand that opened the door."
I left before he could respond.
...
I couldn't tell Dad my plan directly. If Mom or Grandma noticed any shift in his behavior, they'd suspect something. So I worked in silence.
Every night, I practiced the route. Storage room, east hallway, service door, blind spot along the wall, gate. I timed it. Eight minutes at a walking pace. Twelve if someone was limping.
I stole painkillers from Grandma's cabinet, one pill at a time. I hid them in a crack in the storage room wall where Dad could reach them. I left no note — just placed them where his hand rested while he slept.
The first night, he didn't notice. The second night, he found them. I watched through the door crack as he stared at the pills, confused. Then slowly, carefully, he swallowed them.
Good. His hand would heal faster with less pain.
I also began hoarding food — crackers, dried fruit, anything non-perishable that wouldn't be missed. I hid them inside my stuffed rabbit, whose seams I'd carefully opened and resewn.
Two weeks until the buyer came for me. Two weeks until I was gone forever.
...
On Thursday, Marcus came again. His face was grim.
"Lily," he whispered, barely moving his lips, "my friend says the investigation is moving, but they need at least two more months. Can you wait?"
Two months. I didn't have two months. I didn't even have two weeks.
I looked up at Marcus and shook my head slowly. "Mr. Marcus, I need you to do something for me. On Wednesday night, the twenty-third, park your truck on Ridgemont Road at ten o'clock. Leave the back door unlocked. Can you do that?"
Marcus stared at me. Something shifted in his expression — he was seeing me, really seeing me, for the first time. Not a helpless child. Something else.
"How old are you?" he whispered.
"Old enough to know that if we wait, my daddy dies." I held his gaze without blinking. "Please."
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Ten o'clock. Ridgemont Road."
...
That night, I finalized everything.
Wednesday the twenty-third was nine days away. Grandma's sleeping pills. Mom's wine — I would crush two of Grandma's pills into it to make sure she stayed down. The chain on Dad's ankle used a padlock, and I knew where Mom kept the key: inside the hollow base of her bedside lamp.
Nine days.
But the next morning, Grandma made an announcement at breakfast that made my stomach drop.
"The buyer moved up his schedule. He's coming this Saturday."
Saturday. That was four days away.