"I don't... I didn't..."

The slap comes so fast I can't see it coming. One moment I'm standing. The next, pain explodes through my jaw, the world goes white in a flash, and I'm on my knees, leaning on one hand and clutching my face with the other. He gave me a savage backhand, knocked me right off my feet. When the daze ends I scrabble back against the wall, slide along to a corner and curl up, trembling. It's been a long time since he's. .h.i.t me. Not since I was a girl.

"If he shows his face in your presence again, you will alert me immediately. In the meantime, I will begin working to ensure he's sent back to prison."

I nod.

"Yes, sir."

"You have work to do tomorrow. I will expect you to be discreet about your face."

He means the bruise rising on my skin. That's all he has to say. He gives me a look that makes me wilt, and walks out the door, pulling it shut behind him. As soon as it closes I scramble to my feet, seize a chair from the vanity table by the bathroom door and haul it over. I shove the antique wood under the doork.n.o.b and rush into the bathroom. I climb in the shower and turn it on, crying out as the cold water hits me, but silent as it turns scalding hot and steam swirls around me as I sink down to sit on the floor of the tub and curl up in the fetal position. My face is throbbing. Even my teeth hurt. It's been years and years since he knocked out one of my teeth, and it was only a baby tooth. He stopped hitting me when I turned ten, and switched to the belt. That stopped two years before he remarried, except for the one time.

Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour later I half-crawl out of the tub and sit on the floor for a while. I'm mostly clean; a scalding hot shower will do that. I've turned pink from the heat and my fingers are all crinkly. I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself. All I can see is the ugly purple bruise on my cheek. It's a bad one. It hurts, a lot. I should put something cold on it, but I don't care. After I stumble out of the bathroom and wrap myself up in a towel, I fall on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. The ceilings are surprisingly low in here, the windows huge. Outside it's started raining again and the water spritz the window and makes tiny tapping noises. The only other sound is my breathing. The staff are either in bed or gone home by now. I should eat, but the very idea of food makes me sick. I lay on my side, and think. I will have to cancel any appointments that require a face to face meeting tomorrow. Phone and email only. Everyone here knows not to ask how my face was marked.

I hate you, Victor. You said you'd save me from this.

A glance to the side, and I start staring at the bookcase. I don't know why I do this to myself. Wrapping up in a robe, I pad over to it on bare feet, reach for the top shelf and pull down the photo alb.u.m. It's a cheap one, just vinyl over cardboard and binding rings. I sit back on the bed and spread it open on my lap.

The oldest pictures have my mother in them. I have my father's coloring but my mother's eyes, and the resemblance between us is uncanny even though she had dark hair.

I never knew her. She died in a car accident when I was three. Sometimes I can feel her, but not remember her. The pictures depress me, so I gingerly turn the plastic page. There are no photos of my father, either with me or alone. In fact there are no photos of me at all until I'm already in college. No birthdays or soccer practice or recitals or school plays. I was homeschooled until I went to college, and tutored; I played no sports. Father paid a personal trainer for me starting when I was thirteen. He would be disappointed in me now, I think. I don't eat much but I don't exercise anymore. There's no time. I'm falling behind on work even now. There are tasks on my schedule, but I can't stop staring at the pictures. Victor took most of them, and of course I am the subject. The backdrops are the main difference. There I am at the mall, there I am at the beach, there I am at the park. There are some selfies, from before they called them selfies. Victor points the camera at us.

A sob chokes out of my throat.

There's a few other pictures. Victor took a picture of me with my first roommate. Brennan, that was her name. Jennifer Brennan. I run my finger over the plastic covering the photo and wonder whatever happened to her. We were cordial, never friends. Jennifer was a strange one, even more shy and awkward than I was and she had a terrible phobia of anyone seeing her naked that made living in a small rectangular room with her rather difficult at times.

There's a picture of her boyfriend in here, too. What as his name? Francis, I think. It started with an F. Nice guy. I never kept in touch with Jennifer. If I called her tonight, would she have any idea who I am? Probably not. Nor would my second year roommate. I remember her; Christine Moore. I can't remember his name, but her boyfriend was pre-med and they were inseparable. I tap the picture of Christine a few times. I know what happened to her, I remember seeing it on the news, now. She went missing in Las Vegas a few years ago. I remember her mother weeping on the news.

Christine was a sweet girl. A little weird, but very kind. She didn't deserve whatever happened to her.

Another turn of the page. I roomed alone in my last year, at least officially.

Unofficially, Vic was living with me.

If my father found this alb.u.m, he'd burn it. Thankfully he doesn't bother to go through my things.

One of the last pictures shows me sleeping. I'm lying on my side, and if my bare shoulder isn't hint enough, I know I'm naked under the blankets. There's a small, secret smile on my face. A hand reaches from behind the camera. It's Victor's soft touch on my cheek that makes me smile in my sleep. I remember that night.

How did it come to this?

I slam the book closed, surge over to the shelf and shove it back in its s.p.a.ce. Quickly, I dress in pajamas and storm out of the room. The house is dark, empty. I don't know where I'm going except that I can't stay in that room anymore. I pace up and down the hall, and the portraits on the walls stare at me. The Amsels are an old family. It was their custom to have a portrait painted of the family patriarch in the prime of his life. The last one is Victor's father. I can't meet his eyes, even if they're only canvas. As I pace back the eyes weigh on my neck, cracked painted gazes burning me with recrimination. This is not my place. I do not belong here.

I don't belong anywhere.

The office. The door swings open. Not my office, the old one. It's huge, and has the highest ceiling of any room on the second floor, almost twelve feet. It actually pokes up into the attic. A ladder from the floor leads up to a walk around, just wide enough for one person. The entire top half of the room is bookcases, except for a door that heads up to the huge cupola that sits in the center of the roof. There's a widow's walk up there, too. Victor showed me once when he still lived here, and during the summers we would use it as a place to sneak away for a while and hide. The office itself is beautiful, with a real person carpet and a ma.s.sive battleship of a mahogany desk, so long and wide it would make a fine bed if someone wanted to sleep on it.

For the most part, the room is untouched. After Victor's father died, his mother essentially kept it as a shrine to him, right down to the stack of papers he was working on the day he was killed. Victor treated this like a holy place. He used to come in here and brood, never touch anything, just sit in his father's chair and stare at the desk as if it held some kind of an answer for him. I never asked him what he was thinking about.

I think I know.

The shelves feel like they're going to topple in, dump their contents on my head and crush me. I rush back out into the hall, down to the stairs and though to the foyer. I could run outside but I hate those f.u.c.king dogs.

I end up in the kitchen, fixing myself a sandwich. Then Alicia walks in.

I blink a few times.

"What are you doing here?"

She flinches, and immediately turns to leave.

"Wait. I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh. Your father caught me as I was leaving and told me to make sure...." She trails off. "Oh my G.o.d. What happened?"

It's like an electric shock.

"Nothing. I fell down. Slipped in the shower. Tired."

She eyes me with a neutral expression.

"If you say so."

"What time is it?"

"Nine thirty."

"You should be home by now. Your kids."

She looks genuinely confused. I can see the response even if she's terrified to say it. What do you care?

"Have you eaten?"

Alicia eyes me. "No, I haven't."

"Want something?"

She looks at me like I just sprouted a second head.

"I..." she looks around, and actually hugs herself.

"I could stay for a minute," she says, quickly.

She moves to the fridge, but I shoo her away. I put the sandwich I was fixing myself in front of her and make my own, sit down at the table and take a small bite. I don't make very good sandwiches. I probably should have put some mayonnaise on the bread or something, but I can't find it.

"Are you alright?"

Her question startles me. Her reaction is instantaneous. Her mouth clicks shut and she looks down.

"No. I'm not."

"You were upset this afternoon."

"Yes."

"Not about the meeting."

"No. Not about the meeting."

She takes a bite, chews it slowly and swallows without looking up.

"Old flame," she says. It's not a question.

"Yes."

"Okay."

I look at her.

"I'm not going to say anything else. I heard you fired an a.s.sistant for touching your shoulder when you fell asleep on the plane."

"Yes. I did. They all hate me, don't they?"

Her sandwich is shaking. Her hands are, too.

"You can answer me. I asked you the question, so I must want the answer."

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes. Please. I have three kids."

"I know. You're not fired. I'd offer to wrap that up so you can take it home but I don't know where the cook keep things to wrap up food."

"Thanks. I'm not really hungry. Can I go?"

"Yes. Come in at nine tomorrow. I'm sleeping in."

"Your father-"

I touch my cheek gingerly, and wince. "I'll deal with him. I'm sleeping in. So should you."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She rises, and most of the sandwich goes in the garbage. As she's leaving, I sigh.

"Alicia."

"Yes?"

"For what's worth, I don't hate you."

A little while later I add, "I just hate myself," but by then I'm alone again.

Chapter Five.

Victor f.u.c.k f.u.c.k f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k me sideways with a blowtorch.

First thing I do is push past some a.s.shole in a paisley tie (really?) and into the men's room. I shoulder my way into a toilet stall. I don't want to touch anything. Then I slip my fingers in my mouth. I can still taste her on my fingers. The stall rattles when I slam my fist into the wall. My hand comes away b.l.o.o.d.y, a spider-web crack in the tile. s.h.i.t.

s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t.

She did not say 'don't leave me'. That was just my imagination. I'm sure of it.

I walk out of the bathroom with a bloodied hand and paisley tie man is waiting for me. He gives my hand a look and I realize I'm being sized up.

Look, I don't pretend to be the hardest harda.s.s that was ever hard, but you learn things in prison. Rule number one, is don't go around sizing people up. Paisley tie man, besides having atrocious taste, is ex military. Still wears a crew-cut and lifts three times a week. He commutes into the city and has a room full of gun parts and Army manuals he bought from a surplus catalog, stuff about close combat techniques and b.o.o.by traps. I can see all that written on his face, somehow.

You get good at reading faces in jail.

"Hey," he snaps at me.

This guy pilots a desk at the biscuit factory headquarters. I'm not in the f.u.c.king mood. I walk past him to the sink and wash my hands. I've got my blood from the broken tile on my right and Eve's p.u.s.s.y juice on my left. The water goes down the sink pink. The paper towel sticks to my hand. I like this bathroom, it reminds me of a casino. It would be a terrible shame if one of those nice porcelain urinals was cracked in half by this a.s.shole's head. The probability of that is rising by the second.

I pull the paper towel away. A few little nicks, nothing serious. I squeeze the paper against the blood and take a deep breath. Count to ten. Conflict management was something else I had to learn. After sitting through enough bulls.h.i.t anger management sessions I actually started paying attention and sharing in hopes they'd stop making me go.

I told them some s.h.i.t about being angry that my Dad died. I'm not angry with him. It's not Dad's fault some a.s.shole ran him off the road into a tree. What makes me angry is that I gave myself completely to Eve and at the first sign of trouble she believed the absolute worst about me. I can still see her father's smug face behind her as she reacted to the b.i.t.c.h's testimony at the trial. Martin. The man has the most punchable face. I wouldn't mind hammering him with my fist. Paisley tie man hasn't given up volunteering to stand in for Martin today. He's edging closer to me all the time as I pat my hand dry again, run more water over it. The cuts are already starting to scab. He looks in the toilet stall and then back at me.

"Did you do that?"

"Not now."

I start walking away.

"I asked you a f.u.c.king question."

He puts his hand on me.

Oh, f.u.c.k you.

I duck from under his grip as he paws at my suit coat. Turn, pivot on my heels, and suddenly his fingers are crushed in my grip. A twist and a squeeze and they'll pop right out of joint, or I can spin on my heel and hammer my elbow against his, snap it clean. I could totally f.u.c.k him up, but I stop. I let go. He goes for me again, grabs at my collar with both hands. I slip my arms up between his and spread them apart, breaking his grip. If I hit this guy, I'm going back to prison.