Pretty Girls Dancing(37)

“A broken arm? How unfortunate. That’s a common childhood injury. I suffered one myself, although not from bike riding.”

Maybe someone had broken it for him. Whitney found herself hoping that was the case. “It was pretty painful for a while. I had to have surgery to get pins in it.”

“That’s regrettable, but pain can provide us an opportunity to grow. As I believe you have in the last couple of days. I want you to realize, Whitney, that your hard work recently has not gone unnoticed. There will be an extra fifteen minutes of television allowed this evening. Unless there is another reward you’d prefer?”

Silently, she shook her head. What would she ask for? Her freedom? Her family back? Nothing else mattered.

“Tomorrow will be a hard day for you . . . the funerals of your family will be held. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get through this. I hope knowing that you have me now will make it easier.”

Like yanking a plug from a drain, her earlier inner defiance swirled away. No. A sob lodged in her throat, choking her. No, it couldn’t be true. He was still lying. Trying to hurt her. Make her weak.

But despite the logic, her legs buckled, and she sank into a graceless heap on the floor. Anguish and disbelief revived their inner war, threatening to tear her apart.

“A loss like this is too much to bear alone. You must pray for acceptance and understanding. And gratitude that God, in his infinite wisdom, has provided you with a new family even as yours is laid to rest.”

The sharp cry that wrenched from her then was unrecognizable to her ears.

“Pray with me now, Whitney.” That voice. Relentless. Without mercy. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”



She was incapable of thought. Like an automaton, she followed the guidelines that were already embedded after just a few days. Although she wanted nothing more than to collapse on the mattress, she sat cross-legged on the stage, blinded by tears and grief, staring at the TV shows that flickered on the wall in back of the stage. She hadn’t eaten. She would have choked if she tried. And she couldn’t bring herself to care what the freak might do to her when he found the leftover food.

Maybe he would kill her. She almost wished he would.

The tug-of-war of hope and desolation had been won for the moment. It was difficult to stir the ashes of her soul and find even a sliver of optimism. If he wasn’t lying . . . He had to be lying. He had to be! But if he wasn’t . . . she didn’t want to live, either. And maybe she’d be in control of that. Because she’d caught a break even he didn’t know about.

It had happened two nights ago as she’d lain awake, thoughts too much like these tumbling around in her head. A tiny clink had sounded nearby, metal on metal. The noise hadn’t been unusual. The links on the chains that connected the handcuff on her wrist to the barre made a racket with the slightest movement.

She’d found the source of the sound the next morning when she showered. A screw had worked free of the base holding the showerhead in place. Whitney had picked it up and examined it, all the while looking over her shoulder, half expecting the freak to be there. Ready to punish her.

It had a flat head. It wouldn’t take a Phillips screwdriver. She knew that much from helping her dad fix stuff in the garage when she was little, handing him the tools he needed. When she’d gotten older, they’d built stuff together, like birdhouses and window boxes. The screw was about two inches long with a pointed end. She’d tested the point on the skin inside her wrist. Broke skin. And in that moment, she had her first secret from the freak. A weapon, to be used either on him or on herself. The future would decide which.

It hadn’t been until last night that a lightbulb had gone off in her head. The screw could be more than a weapon. It could also be used as a tool.

The show abruptly halted. Rubbing her swollen eyes, Whitney unfolded herself and rose, unable to recall what she’d been watching. There would be only a few minutes to brush her teeth and undress for bed before the computer and projector would switch off.

There was just enough laxity in the chain to allow her to move to the corner of the stage. It had dark curtains hanging along the front for about five feet, which provided a semblance of privacy. She brushed her teeth and then peeked into the shower.

The screw was still lying on the floor, where she’d left it after using it last night. She’d decided that leaving it in plain sight was the best defense. If it were found in her possession, she’d be punished, but she could always claim she hadn’t seen it. Plausible deniability. Her dad’s voice sounded in her head so clearly when she’d found it that he could have been standing beside her. He always said that when she and Ryan were arguing over which of them was at fault for some accident in the house. If you’re going to make up a story, make it a good one.

The lights turned off. The darkness was broken only by the splinter of moonlight bordering the black curtain that covered the lone, small horizontal window near the ceiling in the back corner of the stage. It didn’t matter. The task Whitney had begun the previous evening could be accomplished by touch alone.

The walls surrounding the stage were brick. Solid. But the flooring was two-inch wooden strips. If she could pry up one of those slats, she’d be armed with something far more formidable than a screw.

She wasn’t yet sure if she wanted to die. But there wasn’t a doubt that she wanted him to.