The Girl Before (6 page)

The door flies open before I can duck out of sight. Glen stares at me for a moment, then glances back into the room before pulling the door shut behind him. He puts a finger to his lips, grabs my arm, and drags me down the hall. I scramble to keep up and keep a hold on the linens in my arms. He stops, grabs the stack of fabric from me, and
dumps it into the nearest closet, which happens to contain brooms. I start to protest, but the look he gives me silences me at once.

We continue outside, and the frigid air blasts through the thin cotton of the dress I'm wearing. The snow crunches under our feet as we hurry across the lawn and into a small copse of pine trees. There is little snow amidst the trees, and though the air is still cold, we are protected from the wind.

Glen stops and shrugs his jacket off, wrapping it around my shoulders. He grasps my biceps and looks me straight in the eye.

“Clara. How much of that did you hear?”

“N-not much. Just . . . the last part.”

“The part where I told my father I wanted you, or the part where he smacked the shit out of me?”

“Both,” I admit.

Glen smiles ruefully. “Ah. Then my secret is out.”

I watch him carefully, unsure of what to say. He seems to be deciding something as well.

“My father won't let us be together, Clara.”

My heart stops. I nod, trying to give him a wobbly smile, but failing as tears fill my eyes. Of course I knew it wasn't possible, but a part of me, the part that allowed daydreams before sleep, had been holding on to hope. All the stolen hours together, the conversations we had had. Glen told me things he'd never told anyone else, and more often than not I had found myself thinking of a future with him, instead of with the client to whom I was promised. I drop my gaze to the pine needle–carpeted ground.

“Clara,” Glen says, lifting my chin with his index finger, forcing my eyes back to his. “I don't give a damn what my father says.” He drops his hand. “That is . . . I mean . . . if you . . .”

I understand his sudden vulnerability. Despite his bravado, Glen
is worried that I might not feel the same way. My heart feels as if it will burst. I wondered if I loved him before, but now I am sure. I reach for his hand. “I do,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

Glen's face breaks into a grin, and before I can react, his mouth is on mine. I have never been kissed before, and I am not sure what to do. He pulls away suddenly, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Oops.” He doesn't look sorry. “That was your first kiss, huh?”

I nod.

“Let's erase that one,” he suggests, moving toward me again, cupping my face in gentle hands. “This should be the kiss you remember.” His lips are gentler this time, lightly brushing mine at first, then becoming more firm. I mimic his movements, growing more confident under his patient tutoring. I thrill at the tingles running up and down my body. I am kissing Glen! My daydreams never came close to the actual moment. I want to climb inside him and live, and never be apart from him.

I lose track of time, but too soon Glen's kisses gentle, and he moves away, keeping my face in his hands. My hands rest on his hips, though I am not sure how they got there. It feels natural, and he doesn't seem to mind.

“Clara,” he breathes. “I've thought about this a lot. I've been making some plans. I went to my father today as one last attempt to reason with him.” His jaw clenches, and he raises a hand to a spot on his cheek that is already starting to bruise. “We have to run away. You will go with your client in a few months, and we'll never see each other again. I can't let that happen.”

“Okay,” I say. I would agree to anything he suggested at this point. My pulse races, and I wait for my breathing to return to normal.

“It has to be tonight. Papa will be signing your final papers any day. Leaving now will give him a chance to find a replacement and smooth things over. I don't agree with him, but I don't want to ruin him, either.”

So soon. But what Glen says makes sense. I want a good future for my sisters. “Okay.”

“After the girls are asleep tonight, go to the cellar. There's a set of doors at the far end they never patrol. Wait inside, and I will come for you.”

“Okay.”

“You can't bring anything with you, Clara,” Glen warns. “I'll stash a jacket and boots for you, but you can't be caught doing anything that will tip them off. And you can't say good-bye. We won't be back.”

My heart squeezes as I think of my sisters. I would be leaving them in a few months anyway. And this way, I'll be with Glen. “Okay.”

His smile warms me to my freezing toes, and he gives me one more quick kiss. “Go,” he says. “Before they realize you're missing.”

I tighten my fingers on his waist briefly, then remove his jacket from my shoulders, gasping at the sudden chill. I take quick steps back toward the house.

“Clara.” His voice stops me, and I look back. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

I only get one day of reprieve before they come to bring me back to the questioning room. I brace myself as I enter. My wrists are still sore from the restraints, and the red slap across my cheek has progressed to a greenish bruise. I can't believe Meredith would hit so hard.

Connor is the only one in the room when I enter. I sag in relief and sit, absently rubbing my wrists.

“Are you still sore?” Connor asks, glancing at the motion.

I shrug. “A little.”

He sighs. “They were only supposed to restrain you when you woke if you were out of control. I apologize for Meredith's decisions.”

“Is she coming?”

“No.”

I nod. Good. I hope they threw her in a small room like mine, chained down by restraints and slapped at least three times a day. A slap to go with each meal. I smile at the idea. Connor looks at me strangely, and I rearrange my features to a more neutral expression.

“How is Glen?” I ask before Connor can ask his questions. I want to take whatever opportunity I have to gather my own information.

Connor continues looking at me for a moment, then leans forward. “He's fine. We told him you had some problems, but didn't mention Meredith. It's probably best not to bring that up.”

I agree. Guards or not, Glen would find a way to get back at Meredith for causing me harm. He does not tolerate others putting their hands on me.

“I thought we'd start easy today,” Connor says, stacking some papers and knocking them on the table to straighten them. “To celebrate your found voice and to ease you into this.”

I give him a small smile, but inside I am a jumble of nerves. I don't know what to expect, and I still haven't worked out what Glen said. I recite the rules in my head.
No clients. No Mama and Papa. No South Dakota.

“State your name.”

“Clara.”

Connor smiles. “Your full name.”

“Clara Lawson.”

The smile falters. “First, middle, and last, please.”

I am confused. Then I picture the ID I was given for South Dakota. My brain feels like it lights up, and I laugh. “Oh! Stephanie Ann Caraway.”

Now Connor looks confused. “Stephanie . . . Ann . . .” His voice trails off.

“Caraway,” I supply. I look at his paper, waiting for him to write it down.

“You have been insisting your name is Clara.”

“It is.”

“But you said it was Stephanie.”

“No, my full name is Stephanie Ann Caraway. That's what Glen said if anyone asked. That's what it said on . . .” My mouth snaps shut. Three minutes into the conversation and I've almost given us away. I cringe as I imagine Glen's reaction. He would make sure the other side of my face matched what Meredith gave me.

“On what?”

“I forget.”

Connor sighs, more loudly this time. “Clara, I thought this would be an easy question to start with.”

I want to cry. I have messed up and don't fully understand how. I place my head on the table, cooling my flaming face on the smooth metal surface. What is my name? Clara. Stephanie.

Diana.

I sit up. “Can we move to the next question, please?”

Connor purses his lips. “Fine. How old are you . . . Clara?”

I ignore the pause before my name. “Twenty-three.”

“Your birthday?”

“October sixth.”

“How long have you known Glen Lawson?”

“Since I was fourteen.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Dance class.” These questions are expected. I rehearsed the answers. I decide the shorter the answers, the better, but I can tell that Connor is frustrated with my lack of elaboration.

“Where was the dance class?”

I do not answer.

“Clara? Where was your dance class?”

“In the studio.”

“Which studio?”

“The one where we met.”

Connor's lips have thinned. I can only imagine Meredith's reaction if she were here. I am glad she isn't. Connor has always been more patient. But clearly his patience is running out as well.

“No, Clara,
which studio
?”

I tilt my head. “I don't understand.”

“What was the name of it? Who was the teacher? What city was it in?”

Scratching at the surface of the table, I hesitate. I'm treading on dangerous ground. I should have made up some completely random answer as to how I met Glen, but now I'm stuck. I can't say which studio, or who taught it, because as far as Connor knows, I have never met Mama or Papa. My mind blanks, and I go with the easiest answer I can think of. “I don't remember.”

“Like hell.”

My eyes widen. Connor is angry. How did I anger him so quickly?

Connor stands and begins pacing. “I can't help you, Clara, unless you help me. This doesn't look good, you know.”

I remain silent as I follow him with my eyes. Back and forth, back and forth.

“They want you to rot, Clara. They want to throw you in prison for the rest of your life. They think you are a part of all this, that Glen is only protecting you.”

I shake my head, my mouth opening in silent protest. I don't even know what “this” is, but I know I haven't done anything wrong.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cell, Clara? Because
I promise you, it won't be as nice as the space you've got now. These are plush accommodations, but you can't stay in the psychiatric ward forever. Eventually you'll have to make a choice that will determine where you go next.”

My hands begin to tremble.

“Meredith was all for throwing you in with the other inmates for a few nights, giving you a taste of what it would be like.” Connor runs his fingers through his hair, scrunching his hands in the strands so they stand out when he removes them. It would be funny if the look in his eyes weren't so terrifying. He comes and leans his hands on the table, moving until his face is inches from mine.

“You wouldn't last a night in that prison, Clara,” he whispers. “I don't want to do that to you. Please, don't make me do that to you.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face, and the room begins to spin. “Clara!” Connor's voice sounds far off. I try to catch myself as I topple from my chair, but my arms don't respond. Fireworks explode behind my eyelids before everything goes dark.

My ears ring as I float back to the surface of consciousness.

“Clara.” Gentle hands pat my cheeks. “Wake up.”

I open my eyes and see Connor's face, his blurry forehead creased in concern. As my vision focuses, I realize I am lying on the floor, my head in Connor's lap, and my brain feels as if it is trying to escape from my skull.

“I'm sorry, Clara, I wasn't quick enough to catch you. You hit your head pretty hard.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and spots dance in front of Connor's face. I feel sick.

“The guards are coming to bring you to the medical wing.” Connor releases a long breath. “Please think about what I said. I don't want to send you away, but if you won't help me, I can't help you.”

There is no threat in his voice, only quiet desperation. I believe
he truly does want to help me, and through the nausea I am experiencing, I feel a pang of guilt. I cannot give him what he wants. Because what he wants is to send Glen away. He hasn't said it, but I have put the pieces together. They hope to use me for information to put Glen in prison. They want to put him away for things he did to help our daughters, to protect me. And I can't let that happen.

I cannot be without him. And I won't.

The house is quiet as I creep out of the room. My sisters are all sleeping soundly, exhausted from the marathon cleaning we did today in preparation for a new client interview. We never see the clients, unless they are our own. I have met the client whom I am promised to twice. He is at least thirty years my senior and wishes to have a girl in the house to help with household chores and other duties at his second home, where he lives when his business takes him away from his wife and children.

My hands tremble as I turn the knob on the doorway to my bedroom, easing it open and slipping out into the dim hallway. I have been weighing this decision in my mind all evening. When Glen suggested we flee, it made perfect sense, but as soon as I was away from him, the doubt started creeping in. I have grown up in this house, learned so many things, and running away seems like throwing all of that in Mama's and Papa's faces. What will happen when we leave? Will my client accept a substitute? Will he be angry? I know my fee is substantial. Will they completely lose that money? My palms dampen, and I rub them up and down my nightgown as I falter in the hallway.

Though Glen said he has been thinking about this and preparing for some time, I wonder if he really knows how to survive on his own. Yes, he has trained under Papa, but he also grew up here, was taken care of, sheltered. This is all either of us knows. I shake my head as I near the stairs, already preparing a speech in my head to tell Glen that there must be another solution, another way we can be together and not cause problems. Some way everyone can be happy.