“Barbara, call security,” he demanded.
Cait’s eyes never wavered from his. “Yes, Barbara, please call security, because this man is a heinous monster who should have been arrested years ago. He’s a coward and a thief who stole the memories of my mother. You moved me away from my friends at four years old after my mother died and refused to let me speak of her.” She lowered her voice, mimicking his. “She never loved you, you little shit. She hated the very sight of you.”
“That’s enough,” he said, rising to his feet.
Cait straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, stepping closer and staring him down. He was once terrifying, but now she saw a weak old man, a coward. Lowering her voice again, she said, “Sit down. Troublemakers don’t get to move.” She leaned closer, and he sank into his chair. “Remember those words? You ingrained them into my head on a daily basis.”
“Enough,” he said shakily.
“You’re right. I’ve had enough. Enough living in fear. Enough being afraid to love. Enough living in the shadows of the hell you put me through.”
Murmurs rose around them, and two of the men moved closer to Cait. Panic gripped her, but they stood with her, arms crossed, glowering at her father.
“There’s no proof!” her father said anxiously. “It’s her word against mine, and look at her, with all those tattoos. She’s probably a drug user, strung out on dope.”
Cait scoffed. “That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? Let’s talk about my ink, because you taught me almost all of the lessons that are on my body.” She thrust her arm out, showing him the spiderweb. “You taught me that men spin beautiful webs for all to see, but in private, those webs bound me to your torture.” She pointed to the building on her biceps that looked like their old shed in the backyard. “How many nights was I locked in that shed when I was eight?”
More gasps sounded.
“Three, because I had wasted three minutes of your time on the way home. When I was nine, it was eight, because I’d taken eight minutes too long in the shower.” She lifted her shirt to her ribs, revealing a girl looking in a shattered mirror. “Remember this lesson? You picked me up off my feet and slammed my back against the hall mirror because I had tripped going down the stairs and cried while you were on the phone. I had cuts on my back for days. You had to take that whole week off work because you couldn’t leave me with your parents. They’d ask questions.”
“Jesus,” someone said, and other sounds of shock filled the room.
Her father swallowed hard. “She’s . . . she’s lying!”
“I have the scars to prove it. I have the scars to prove all of it. Some of them you can see, but most of them aren’t visible to the naked eye. Those are the ones that cut the deepest. You tried to break me, and Lord knows you almost won. But I’m not made of the same weak, pathetic fabric that you are. You taught me that people are evil and can’t be trusted. Now I know better.” She felt the puppetry strings breaking away with every word she said, spurring her on. “You’re evil and you can’t be trusted. But you’re not a person. You’re a monster of the worst kind. And you’re right that I can’t prove a damn thing in the courts.” She leaned closer, and he leaned back. “But I know the truth, and you know the truth.” She stood tall again, eyes trained on him. “And now every person in this room knows the monster behind the facade.”
The other men and women in the room gathered around Cait, staring with disgust at her father.
Her father’s eyes caught on her necklace.
“That’s right—it was hers.” She let that sink in. “If you ever come near me, I will have you arrested, and then I will go to every media outlet on the East Coast and tell them exactly what an abusive predator looks like.”
She turned to leave and saw hordes of people watching them from the other side of the glass wall. A flash of embarrassment hit, and she started to lower her eyes, but she caught herself and lifted her chin. Empowered by her own courage, she allowed her smile—my gorgeous, sometimes-bashful, sometimes-sassy smile—to appear as she walked out of the office with Barbara and a few others calling out to her. Are you okay? Do you want to call the police? Should we call someone for you?
They believed her. That was everything.
Cait reassured them that she’d be fine and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, she knew she’d finally broken free, leaving the shackles of her painful past behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“BABE, IT’S ME again. Sorry to leave so many messages, but I’m getting worried.” Brant paced the hall outside the equipment supply company, leaving Cait another voicemail. “Listen, I’m sorry if I said something that upset you last night, but please just let me know you’re okay. I’m heading into a meeting with the accountants, but I’ll keep my phone on. I love you.”
Brant ended the call. He knew Cait was always slammed at the tattoo shop, but he’d had an uneasy feeling since last night. On top of his worries, he’d already had a hell of a day. He’d left Scrappy with his grandmother and had been on a dead run between equipment inspections, handling unexpected issues with a sea crane that took hours to rectify, and now the meeting with the accountants was about to start.
He pocketed his phone as his father poked his head out of the office. “The meeting is starting, son. Did you reach her?”
“No. I left another message,” he said as he headed inside.
“I’m sure she’s just busy. Let’s get this meeting over with.”
There was nothing worse than waiting for a text and trying to focus on balance sheets and financial reports. Brant was sure he was missing half of what was said, but nobody was cursing, and he took that as a good sign. He checked his phone again, gritting his teeth at the blank screen.
It was nearly three o’clock when the meeting ended, and Brant was riddled with worry. He texted Tank on his way out of the meeting—he just needed to know she was okay.
“Did you finally hear from Cait?” his grandfather asked as they stepped outside.
“No. I’m messaging Tank and asking him to have her call me when she’s done with her clients.”
His father put a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re pretty sure you didn’t say anything she could have taken wrong last night? I told you women and men don’t always speak the same language.”
Brant clutched his phone. “I don’t know, Dad, but we talk about everything. We don’t ignore problems. It’s not like her not to at least respond with a quick text between clients.” His phone vibrated with a response from Tank, and as he read it, the pit of his stomach sank.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“Tank said she called him this morning and said she needed the day off. I’m calling Abby.” Worry swamped him as he made the call.
“Hi, Br—”
“Abby, have you heard from Cait?”
“No. I’ve been trying to reach her since last night, and Dee said she tried her at lunchtime. She hasn’t returned any of our calls or texts. Have you heard from her?”