His gaze slipped down again to the file.
I knew what he was looking through.
Page One was a list.
Names, if I had them. Basic descriptions--height, weight, tattoos, birth marks, eye and hair color, anything that I remembered.
The next page was sketches.
I was no artist, but I couldn't trust anyone with this information. At least not yet. The plan was always to bring it to Ferryn one day. But not yet. Not until I gathered all the information I needed.
After that, there were words. Words I wondered if he could interpret, infer their meaning.
Hitting, choking, punching, spanking, gagging, humiliation, bodily function, sadistic.
Then after that, the basic profiles of the men whose identity I had figured out.
Lastly, a page of small boxes. Some with pictures, some blank until I figured out who they were. The first five were crossed out. The rest, not.
Yet.
It felt like Finch looked at that page forever.
It felt like time stood still.
Seasons and years passed.
But then his gaze finally lifted, eyes intense, face unreadable
"Angel, what the fuck did these men do to you?"
The words echoed somewhere deep inside, rousing a part of me that still felt trapped in that basement, still lived in fear of footsteps, of being picked up and tossed over a shoulder, of being dragged up stairs, thrown on a bed.
The panic overtook every inch of me.
Before I even truly understood my intention, I was flying out of the chair, out of the room, down the halls.
Escape.
All I could think of was escape.
I had to get away.
From my past.
From the part of myself still stuck in it.
From Finch's discovery of it.
I just had to get away.
There were several long seconds before I could hear footsteps behind me.
Footsteps.
Footsteps on stairs.
Footsteps coming to get me.
Run.
I had to run.
Faster than I ever had before.
I couldn't let it all catch up to me.
I couldn't let him catch up to me.
"Chris!" Finch's voice called after me.
Faster.
He was much faster.
But I knew the area better.
I took corners, burst through doorways and closed doors, made my way toward the front exit, racing through, feet pounding across the front yard, eyes on the gate.
"Open it. Open it, damnit," I begged, gasping for air as the guards looked at me, looked beyond me, then back. "Open the fucking gate!" I snapped, making one of them jolt backward, not used to that language from me, or the tone used.
The other guard reached for the keypad, plugging in the code.
Even as footsteps came up behind me.
"Chris, wait," Finch demanded.
But it was too late.
The gate was open.
And I was running again.
This time, into the woods.
The flaw here was, I didn't know the woods like I knew the compound.
I was flying blind, dodging trees, getting tangled up in brambles, then, finally, tripping over a log, sending me flying.
"Fuck," Finch hissed, just a little too far behind. Too far to catch me, to prevent my forward fall.
My arms shot out, bracing.
The impact knocked out my breath, reminding me of childhood when I would swing too high, get too reckless, lose my grip, and go flying, then slam to the ground, too shocked and airless even to cry.
"You're alright, princess," he assured me even before he even knew if I was or not. But his reassuring voice washed over me, almost made me believe it. Almost.
But I wasn't okay.
I couldn't be okay.
Because he knew.
Or suspected.
But suspected was as bad as knowing.
And this one person in my life hadn't known about that part of my past was going to do what everyone else did.
Look at me with pity.
Consider me fragile and breakable.
The surge of grief over losing that freedom was swift and crippling.
"Alright, come on, stop being so dramatic," he said, voice teasing as he squatted down next to my shoulder, looking down at me. "Let me make sure you didn't bust that pretty face," he added, nudging me the tiniest bit with the tips of his fingers. "Chris, come on," he demanded, getting worried, hands reaching out, grabbing my shoulders, rolling me onto my back. "Take a breath," he demanded, tapping two fingers into the center of my chest.
"Don't pity me." The words burst out, raw and slippery, desperate to be heard, to be obeyed.
"Pity is a fuck of a thing," he told me, letting out a long sigh as he dropped down on his butt beside me, leaning back against a tree I'd narrowly missed. "You don't want anyone to feel it for you, but if they don't feel it, they're fucking assholes, y'know?" he asked, reaching in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.
It sounded like he knew about pity. About having others feel it toward you. About not wanting it, but understanding it was unavoidable.
"Be a fucking asshole," I demanded, pulling in a ragged breath.
"Afraid I can't do that, angel," he told me, shaking his head. "But I won't give you pity. How about I give you some righteous anger? I'm better with that anyway."
"I don't mind anger."
It was why I got along better with Ferryn than anyone else at this point. She'd turned her hurt into hard. She'd taken her brokenness and sharpened those edges so that no one could hurt her again. If they tried, they'd bleed. And I felt like I could breathe around her, around that rage. Because I kindled it deep in my core as well. Even if I tried hard to bank down the flames. Even if I tried to pretend it wasn't a part of me.
"Good. Because what I am picking up from what was in that file, sweetheart, makes me want to bust some heads."
"No one is supposed to see that file."
"I figured that, what with how it was under the mattress and everything. I was right, though."
"About what?"
"About you having a diary. It just wasn't the kind I was expecting. That's a kill book, isn't it?" he asked.
Smoke dancing around his handsome face while he casually talked about murder was a look I'd never forget. Or, at least, I hoped I would never forget.
"Yes."
"You got five."
"No."
"No?" he asked, brows drawing together. "There were crosses."
"I didn't get them. But they are gone," I told him, not sure how much I wanted to reveal.
"You ever killed someone, angel?" he asked, eyes piercing.
"No," I admitted. It felt weird to feel disappointed in myself for something that was normal for the vast majority of the population of the world. But in my world, around my people that was rare. Almost unheard of. I didn't have to ask, but I did. "Have you?"
"Yes."
"Do you regret it?"
"No."
"Do you feel like a bad person because you don't regret it?"
"Regret is a fuck of a thing too, right? You can't change it, so why waste the time? But, no. I don't regret it. See, there is killing and there is murder and they are very different things. Innocent men out exercising and getting gunned down? That's murder. Me taking down someone who wanted to kill me? That's killing. Taking down bastards who hurt you? That's killing. Maybe that means my moral compass is skewed, but I don't give a shit. Some killings make the world a better place. Some people don't belong here."