He yanked me out of the room, and holding my left arm in a viselike grip, he opened his vault with a passcode and pupil recognition sensor.

“You’re hurting me!”

“I’ll give you money!”

Still gripping my arm, he shoved me inside and I hit a wall comprising a steel bank of drawers. He closed the door. We both knew I could die here and no one would know. All he’d have to do was say I left once again, and no one would doubt it.

He was breathing fire. “Open it.” When I didn’t answer, he yelled, “Open the drawer!”

I rubbed my arm and pulled out a drawer. It was filled with bank teller packets fronted with hundred-dollar bills. Neatly stacked—five wide and two across. I couldn’t tell how thick the packets were or how deep they were, but it was safe to say there was a lot of money.

“Open another one!”

“Chris—”

“Open it.” He jerked a drawer open. “You want money?” He threw a packet at me. “Here! Take my money, bitch. Here.” Another missile flew at me. “Here.” Another. “Here.”

The last one hit my face like a bullet. Pain exploded in my head as I grabbed my cheek. My vision went blurry, I dropped to my knees, and I covered my face.

“Shit!” He was panting. “Damn it!” A pause. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I uncovered my face, tried to steady my breathing. An attempt to stand, but again, I buckled.

“C’mon.” He walked over and took my good arm.

“Get away from me!” I screamed as I yanked my arm back.

“Jesus!” A pause. “I’m just trying to help you up.”

“I don’t need your help!” I shot back. “I don’t need your help, I don’t need your money, and I don’t need you. You raped me—”

“Terry—”

“You raped me, Christopher, and it wasn’t the first time. Or the second or the third or the fourth, and so on and so on. But I never said a thing. I always made excuses for you in my head: He’s tired, he’s stressed, he’s worried, he’s drunk, he’s stoned, he isn’t thinking clearly. And you know what? I wouldn’t have said anything this time, either, except look at me!” I was trying to stanch tears. “I’ve got two black eyes, a purple face, a wired jaw, three broken ribs, a broken arm, and I’m still pissing blood. But none of my injuries—none of them—compare to the pain and heartache I feel over losing my little boy. I don’t know where he is. I assume he’s with Devek, but I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s safe!” My voice stuck in my throat. “He’s only five, and God only knows what he’s thinking. He must be so scared!”