Resilience | ✔

Chapter Twenty-Two

T/W: detailed torture, blood, LGBT slurs

Jackson slammed the door open, the handle chipping the wall where it hit. Marley had heard him undoing the locks (all twelve of them; he'd added more) and was prepared, but still flinched at the sound.

"They've decided to bring the investigation back," Jackson spat, kicking the door shut. "Make it domestic."

Marley stayed quiet. She didn't even bother to be hopeful. They wouldn't find this place. It was probably too wooded overhead. Satellites wouldn't do jack.

The silence was pregnant with anticipation and dread as he put his briefcase down and opened it. He always wore slacks and a dress shirt. Today's shirt was white with thin blue stripes. It'd stain easily. He was normally good about not getting any fluids on himself, but she figured she could manage today.

"I got a new client," he said as he rolled up his sleeves.

The movement triggered the animal fear in Marley—she knew what came after—and she glanced at the door, wishing he wasn't blocking her, wishing she was strong enough to outrun him. Instead of bolting, she looked at him and said, blandly, "Oh?"

"His name's Charlie. He's a bit of a troublemaker," Jackson said. "But I promised I'd find him a good home. Do you want to know what we did as a bonding experience?"

Marley's mouth tasted sour. "By all means."

"I took him to New York Pride yesterday," Jackson said.

Her stomach dropped out.

"They always hold it early in June," Jackson continued. "He identifies as gay, the poor kid. So I'm thinking you might have a buddy soon."

Out—she had to get out. Had to warn this kid—Charlie. She fought to keep her voice steady as she said, "Your beef is with me, Jackson. Not some random kid."

"No, it's really not." He pulled a knife out of his briefcase, clearly holding it up for show, put it back. "I thought I'd explained that." He huffed and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Marley was too slow on the uptake. Worry clouded her head, and she let Jackson push her to where he wanted her. It was fine if she was here—she could take it. But some random kid from the foster system? He'd be fucked up forever. If they didn't both die here. And if he was in the foster system he was probably already traumatized enough, because what kid without parents wasn't? She had to get herself out of here, had to find Charlie, had to get him away from Jackson.

"He's staying with you, I assume?" she asked, and realized she'd just fucking missed her chance to escape. He'd uncuffed one of her hands to clip the other handcuffs on, and now he was clicking it into place around one of the legs of a toilet stall. Her other hand was already cuffed to the other one. What was he planning on doing?

"Where else would he be?" Jackson looked at her like she was crazy. He yanked on one wrist, then the other, to test the cuffs. Bolts of pain shot down Marley's arms, but she kept a blank face. She didn't answer his question.

He moved away, came back with a knife.

She was so sick of this.

And it sounded like he was too, as he said, in a tone beyond bored, "Repeat after me: I am not gay."

"Kiss my sweet ass," Marley replied in a monotone.

The knife dug into her left arm, icy fire, and she did her best to breathe through the pain. He made deliberate movements, the way he always did, but it felt like he was writing something. Bracing herself—she never liked watching herself get hurt—she turned her head until she could see her arm. He'd made a single cut, crosswise, and as she watched, he made two short strokes lengthwise. Turning it from a line to a letter. F.