Chapter 1 - THE SILENCE OF THE LAMB
I lay on the cold,
starched duvet,
my breath held tight,
like a prisoner waiting for the executioner.
The click of the lock,
that sharp,
metallic sound,
echoed in the hollow of my chest.
I could hear them,
just outside the heavy oak door,
whispering like ghosts in a graveyard.
Frank’s voice was low,
gravelly,
and filled with a terrifying authority.
“Is the camera ready?”
he asked,
his tone devoid of any fatherly warmth.
“Ready,”
Brian replied,
and the sound of my husband’s voice,
the man I had slept next to for three years,
made my skin crawl.
I felt a shadow cross over me,
as the door creaked open once more.
The air in the room changed,
becoming heavy with the scent of expensive cigars,
and the musky sweat of strangers.
Victor,
the man with the hungry eyes,
approached the bed.
I kept my eyes squeezed shut,
praying that my fluttering eyelids wouldn’t betray me.
“She’s a beauty,”
Victor whispered,
his breath smelling of old wine and malice.
“A very expensive asset,”
Frank added,
chuckling darkly.
I felt a hand,
rough and calloused,
brush against my cheek.
I wanted to scream,
to claw his eyes out,
but I remained a statue.
“Don’t touch her yet,”
Brian said,
his voice trembling slightly,
perhaps with a shred of guilt,
or perhaps just fear of his father.
“We need the signatures first.”
“The contract for the highway expansion,”
Frank muttered.
“Once Roger signs,
the girl is your playground for the evening.”
My heart hammered so hard,
I feared they would see my chest moving.
They weren’t just drugging me;
they were selling me.
I was a bribe,
a piece of meat used to grease the wheels of Frank’s political machine.
I heard the rustle of paper,
the scratching of a pen,
and the clinking of glasses.
“To the new partnership,”
Roger’s voice joined in.
They walked back out to the hallway,
leaving the door slightly ajar.
I opened one eye,
just a sliver,
and saw the red light of the miniature camera I had hidden.
It was recording everything.
Every word,
every face,
every betrayal.
I reached into my pocket,
my fingers trembling,
and felt the small,
sharp blade of the letter opener I had swiped from the study.
I wasn’t a victim anymore.
I was a witness.
And witnesses,
if they are smart,
become survivors.
I waited for the sound of their retreating footsteps,
the heavy thud of the front door,
and the roar of an engine.
Only then,
did I let out a jagged,
silent sob.
I had to get out,
but the window was barred,
and the door was guarded by Martha.
Martha,
the woman who prayed the rosary,
while her husband sold her daughter-in-law.
The betrayal was a bottomless pit.
I stood up,
my legs feeling like lead,
and moved toward the closet.
I needed a weapon,
a plan,
and a way to stay alive until morning.
May you like
The game had changed,
and I was finally learning how to play.
