Collared(28)

I swallow and find myself sliding behind Torrin, using him as a shield against the relentless flashes breaking through the glass. “They won’t move on. I know that. You know that.”

When he clenches his jaw, it pops. “Give it some time.”

I shake my head. “I just want to get this all over with. The sooner they can get their photos, their headlines, the sooner this will pass. I don’t want to delay the inevitable. I want it over with.”

Torrin watches me for a minute. He watches another minute more. “You’re sure?”

Of course I’m not, but I’m not sure of much anymore. “I’m sure.”

He sucks in a breath like he’s preparing to make a deep dive. “Here, put this on.” He holds out his raincoat and waits.

“Why?”

“Just . . .” When his eyes lower to my neck, to the stained collar of my sweater, I know why. “Don’t give them anything more than you’re ready to talk about.”

I nod, and he steps behind me and slides the jacket up my arms and over my shoulders. He even slides the hood over my head before zipping the coat up to my chin.

He lowers his face to mine and smiles. “There. Now you’re ready to weather the storm.”

I smile back, but I’m a ball of nerves. Get this over with. Move on. When I move toward the front door, Torrin rushes up to my side. Everyone in the lobby is still looking at me, but this time it’s because they know who I am now. That girl. The one who’d been kidnapped from one of the safest blocks in the country ten years ago.

That girl.

I can almost feel those words cycling through the consciousness of everyone staring at me. That’s how people will know me now. As That Girl.

It makes my feet move faster until I’m practically charging through the sliding glass doors. Torrin’s truck is only a few meters away, but getting to it is like trying to move through a pool of cement.

Cameras are thrown in my face. Microphones are thrust to my mouth. What feels like hundreds of people close in around me, corralling me, trapping me. In my rush to get outside, Torrin has fallen a few steps behind. Now that we’ve hit the wall of reporters, it’s next to impossible to move.

Lights flash in my face. Questions fire at me one after another.

“Jade, how are you?” I hear that question at least a dozen times. “Anything you’d like to say to the world?”

I don’t answer. I just tuck my head down and try to keep moving forward. It’s impossible though. They’re too strong, and I’m too weak. I can’t break free.

“Anything you wish you could say to Earl Rae Jackson if he were alive today?” another reporter shouts, lashing another microphone in my face.

The flashes are relentless. I’m trying not to look at them, but they’re blinding me. I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t talk. I’ve felt helpless like this before, but never when I haven’t been attached to a short length of chain.

“Is it true he kept you chained up in his house for ten years?” a male reporter crows above the rest of them, getting his microphone so close to me it actually bounces off my nose.

I cry out a little. Not because it hurt but because it surprised me.

That’s when I hear a loud growl behind me, and I start to feel space opening up around me. Someone comes up behind me, drapes their arms over my head, and guides me through the ocean of reporters.

“I’ve got you,” Torrin says, steering me through them like he’s a sharp knife slicing through ribbon.

“What’s your relationship to Miss Childs, Father?”

Now that Torrin’s come into the picture, the questions are changing. The tone of them is shifting. There’s less pity in the reporters’ voices, replaced with skepticism.

We’re almost to the truck. I can just make out the front tires. I think Torrin has to shove a few cameramen away from the door so he can open it, but he does it without hesitating. He does it like he’s moving cardboard boxes instead of grown men.

Once the door is open, he shields my body with his until I’m all the way inside the cab. He slams the door, almost taking off a man’s hand when he sticks a microphone in after me.

Now the reporters are focused on him, slamming their mics in his face while cameras pan in his direction as he shoves around to the driver’s side of his truck. As soon as he throws the door open, he dives inside and fires up the engine.

“Stay down.” He has to shout above the noise, but his hand is gentle as it guides my head forward into my lap. The cameras don’t stop flashing.

Torrin blares his horn twice, then he presses down on the gas. I hear shouts of anger as we drive away. I wonder how close he came to running someone over.

It’s quiet for a while before he taps my back. “We dropped the reporters. You can sit up now if you want.”

I straighten up slowly and glance out the window. Flashes of buildings and cars pass by. Looking out the window like this makes me nauseated, almost motion sick, so I turn to face forward.

My hands are shaking in my lap. Not trembling—shaking. I stare at them and try to make them stop. I focus on them until I feel my teeth grinding together, but I can’t control them.

They won’t stop shaking.

I want to cry because I feel like my body is betraying me. I stare out the window again. I’d rather be nauseated than let Torrin see me cry.