Protecting What's Mine(106)

“I hope your sister is wearing some souvenirs from you,” Linc said darkly.

“I broke her nose. Yours isn’t, by the way.”

“That’s because my cartilage is much stronger than Luke’s pansy-assed fist.”

“Your entire face is turning purple.”

“Let’s get back to this asshole sister of yours.”

Mack wanted to curl up against him. To press her face to his chest and let his warmth thaw her out. But this was the kind of conversation that required eye contact.

“She’s older by a few years. We’ve never been close. We’ve never gotten along. She’s always been…not right.” She picked at a thread on the comforter. “It’s not a surprise. Our mother is an alcoholic who bounced from man to man and dead-end job to dead-end job. We were never in the same place very long. Rent didn’t get paid. Electricity got shut off. Or Andrea—my mother—met someone else. Someone who’d take care of her.

“Sometimes she’d just disappear for a day or two, and then she’d crawl home in dirty clothes and smeared makeup smelling like smoke and men. Once when I was six, she didn’t come home from work.”

Linc’s hand slid around her ankle and squeezed.

“My sister, Wendy, didn’t like that I was complaining about being hungry. So she locked me in my room. No food. No water. Storms came through and knocked the power out. It was August in Texas and so hot. No fan. No air conditioning. No water. I waited and waited and finally I couldn’t wait anymore. So I pushed the screen out, and I jumped from the second-story window.”

He swore colorfully.

“The next-door neighbor heard me crying. I’d broken my ankle. But I was so happy I was finally free. The hospital had air-conditioning and food and all the water I wanted. The doctor was so nice to me.” She smiled, remembering him. “Dr. Vishnu. Thick glasses, no hair. His accent sounded like music to me.”

“How long were you locked in your room?”

“Two days.”

Linc’s free hand fisted at his side.

“When the power went out, Wendy went to a friend’s house. She was swimming in their pool while I was in an ambulance.”

“She’s a fucking monster.”

“She was a kid raised by a narcissistic alcoholic.”

“Baby, you were, too. It’s no excuse.”

“It is no excuse. She lied to the police and said that Mom had just gone to the store and that I tried to run away.”

“But they didn’t buy it?”

“My mom didn’t come home for another two days. And she didn’t have a good enough explanation for why the lock on my bedroom door was on the outside. They took both of us away from her. It wasn’t long enough for me. My foster parents—that’s who’s coming for Thanksgiving—were wonderful. Normal. Kind. Loving. I cried when I had to go back. Andrea showed up in court in a pink suit like she’d just come from the country club or something and cried about how she’d made a mistake, she had an illness. She said she attended AA meetings every day for eight weeks. She brought her sponsor. He told the court that she was sober and contrite and willing to do anything to get her kids back.”

“Sponsor meaning her new boyfriend?” he guessed.

“Got it in one. The social worker dropped me off at the house, and within ten minutes, we were packed up and heading north. Left the house, the new boyfriend, and the judge’s ruling to check in with a court-appointed social worker,” she recalled. “She blamed me. She was embarrassed by all the legal fuss. It didn’t make her look good. It was just another reason for Wendy to hate me.”

“What happened after?”

“More of the same. We bounced around while Andrea looked for the perfect man or job. Wendy was still awful. Not necessarily as bad as locking me up alone for forty-eight hours. But unhealthy. She’d steal money out of Andrea’s purse and blame me. She’d hide things in my room like a dead bird or the tennis bracelet a boyfriend gave Andrea. Once, she pushed me down the stairs.”

Linc closed his eyes. His jaw was tight.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not some victim,” she said sharply.

She wasn’t a victim. She was a survivor.

When he opened his eyes, the blue was blazing. “I can feel sorry for the little girl who didn’t have a hero,” he said. “And I can also struggle with the fact that I’d love to have shoved your sister down the stairs.”

Mack smirked.

“When I turned twelve, I was starting to get taller. I hit a growth spurt right around the time we did a self-defense session in gym class. I soaked it up like a sponge. The teacher gave me extra time after school. Looking back, I think she’d seen the bruises, had some suspicions. The next time Wendy tried to mess with me in front of her friends, I threw her on her back. They thought it was hilarious. It made her hate me more, but at least she knew I wasn’t going to just take it anymore.”

“How did you survive?” he asked. He reached to pull her into his side, but she held back.

“There’s more you need to hear first.”

“I’m listening.” His fingers interlaced with hers.

“Wendy turned from a bad kid into a worse teen. She shoplifted, dabbled in drugs, bullied people, stole things one too many times. She got picked up for I don’t even remember what now and was sent to juvenile hall. I still remember watching her leave. It was, to that point, the best day of my life.”