Southern Heat by Natasha Madison

Chapter 13

Quinn

I walk out of the room, and my whole body shakes with rage. My stomach burns, and I have the sudden need to throw up. I listened to her tell her story, and I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I knew it would be a hard one, but what I didn’t realize was that she spent her whole fucking life in hell.

"You need to rein it in," my father says from behind me. I know I can’t turn around because if I do, she will see my face and the horror on it. She will see the tears running down my face. She will see that, and then she will spin it to something else. I know her, in the short time, I know her.

"Dad,” I whisper or plead, even I don’t know. “I can’t." I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. My head is spinning around and around as I replay the words. “So many things make sense. The way she didn’t want to ask for a thing or admit she needed things, like fucking water."

"You need to,” he says and walks over to stand in front of me. “There are so many holes in her story it’s not funny. And frankly"—he shakes his head—“I’m not sure I want to know them. But for her, for right now, you need to be strong."

"I can tell you what isn’t in those stories." I look at him. “There is no one tucking her in at night and telling her good night. There is no one telling her that they love her. No one kissing her when she got hurt. No one protecting her. No one." My voice drops to a whisper. “She had none of that." My heart shatters when I get the full picture.

"I know,” he says. “Trust me, I know, and I am going to be real with you right now. I don’t even think we heard the worst of it."

I swallow down the bile coming up my throat. “It’s a good thing that son of a bitch is dead," I say, my hands going to fists at my sides. “It’s a good thing they’re both dead because …"

"I know,” he says, slapping my shoulder with his hand and squeezing it. The love from him is apparent, love she never felt. “Now we need to get in there and listen to the rest of the story."

I nod and take a deep breath before turning around and walking back into the room. My eyes go to hers as she avoids looking at me. “Okay, if it’s alright," Jacob says, “I’m going to just ask you some timeline questions. Just so we can clear up some things and make sure you weren’t involved."

"You’re kidding, right?" Mayson says with his hands on his hips.

"Isn’t it enough?" I say, my voice not coming out as soft as I wanted it to. “Didn’t you get everything you were looking for?"

"It’s fine,” Willow says. “But I have a question." I look at her and see she is afraid to ask it. “There was a black backpack."

"I have it," Mayson says. I can see her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away as fast as they come.

"Would I be able to get it back?" she asks and holds her breath.

"I’ll bring it to you tonight,” he says. She looks down, and I see a tear fall on her hand.

"You said that your mother met Benjamin," Jacob starts, and she nods.

"They met at a bar, I think, or a party. I have no idea,” she says. “He came home one day and never left. They would get high together, drink together. I tried to stay out of sight. They let me go to school for a bit, but then, well, a teacher noticed the bruises and started to ask questions. They yanked me out and homeschooled me. I managed to do online classes and graduated at sixteen." I smile at her. Even with everything stacked against her, she managed to do all of that.

"Do you know when he changed his name?" he asks, and she nods.

"Oh, yeah,” she says. “He had a roaring good time. Then the high left, and I couldn’t find his new credit card, so he broke four of my fingers." She holds up her right hand. “I had to use popsicle sticks and tape to get them back to normal. Listen, I know you are trying to piece stuff together, and if you haven’t figured it out, it wasn’t good. Nothing in the last eight years was good." She sounds tired, tired and frustrated, and at the edge of a breakdown, but she refuses to let anyone see it.

“He would use my mother against me. If I didn’t do what he wanted, he would hurt her. At first, I protected her." She looks down. “Then …" She laughs as tears stream down her face. “Then she would sell me out. Tell him things I loved so he would keep them from me. Like water. Like a bed. Like food. Like a shower. They would dangle a simple shower in front of me until I gave in and gave them whatever it was that they wanted." She holds her head high. "Things were calm for two months. The credit cards would then be maxed out, and he would have no money until another one would come in. And then the rent was due, so we would have to be ready to move in the middle of the night."

"Your mother passed away," Jacob says, and I look at her.

"Rosalie is not my mother," she corrects him. “A mother doesn’t treat a child like that." I don’t know if I can stand much longer. I look over at my father, who can feel that my strings are about to snap.

"When Rosalie passed away, where were you?" he asks, and I see her look down and then up again.

"I was unconscious in the corner of a motel room," she answers him. “They were going at it, I don’t even know why anymore, and I told them that someone was going to call the cops." She shakes her head. “I knew it wasn’t true. It was a run-down motel that rented rooms by the half hour. He backhanded me a couple of times, and then when I came to, he was sitting on the bed looking down at Rosalie. She was lying there with her eyes open, looking back at him." She puts her hand to her stomach, and her face goes as white as a ghost as she relives it. "He put her in the car and drove her to the hospital and dumped her there." She closes her eyes and moves her hand to put it on her head.

“This is over,” I say, my voice coming out tight. The guys look over at me. “This is enough for one day.” I look over at her and see that her head is down. I want to walk over to her, put my arm around her, and tell her she is so brave as I kiss her tears away from her cheeks.

"We’ve got enough." Mayson steps up. “We don’t need anything else." He looks at me, and we share a silent look, then he turns back and looks at Willow. “I’ll bring your bag."

She nods at him as he walks out of the room. Beau, who hasn’t said a word this whole time, looks at me and then turns to Willow. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft, “for your courage."

She sniffles, looking down at her hand that is shaking. I step forward and hold it in my hand. It feels like ice. She side-looks at our hands together. “I have to say," Jacob says. “It’s an ongoing investigation, so I have to tell you this next part." I look at him, and he looks at me and then at Willow. “You can’t leave town."

She looks at him. “Where the hell am I going to go?"

"She’s staying with me,” I say out loud, and all eyes come to me. “When she is discharged, she’ll be staying with me." I look at Willow, who just stares at me with her mouth open.

"Perfect," Jacob says. “If you remember anything else, let me know."

He looks at me and then walks out of the room. "Willow," my father says. “I’m sorry that you had to relive all of that."

"I know that you guys needed answers,” she says. “You guys have to know that if I could have gotten you help, I would have."

"We know,” he says, smiling at her. Walking out of the room, he grabs a brown bag. “Now, I don’t know if you can eat yet or not, but …" He puts it on the tray. “But my mother found out you like blueberry pie," he says and then takes the pie wrapped in hand towels out of the bag. “It was baked fresh this morning." He places it on the table and then unties the top of it.

"What do we have here?" Shirley says from the doorway, looking at us. “Is that blueberry?”

"It is,” Willow says, looking at the pie. “She made it for me?" she asks, confused, and my father nods his head. "She doesn’t even know me." Her voice is almost a whisper.

My father laughs. “She knows that you got hurt trying to save Chelsea. That’s all she needs to know."

"Do you want a piece now?" I look at Willow and can see in her eyes that she wants a piece, but she is too afraid to say anything.

"I want one,” Shirley says, and my father takes out paper plates and a knife from the bag.

"If it’s okay with you, Willow"—my father looks at her—“I’d like to bring Quinn’s mother by for a visit."

"Dad,” I say, thinking it’s going to be too much for her.

"She was here five days ago," Shirley says, and Willow looks over at her in shock. “We were all worried about you. You can have three bites,” Shirley tells her. “And then maybe some more later.”

My father hands her a piece that is so heavy she won’t be able to hold it with her hand. “Water,” she says, looking at Shirley. “Can I have some water?”

“Where is your cup?” Shirley asks. She looks at me and then the floor, seeing it all smashed. “I’ll get another one."

"I have to get going," my father says and then waits for Willow to look at him. “Thank you, Willow, for today."

"You’re welcome," she says and looks down at her hand. My father looks at me one last time, and I know he will be calling me later.

“Are you okay?" I ask her softly when it’s just us in the room. "Willow," I call her name, and she looks up at me, and I see the tears filling her eyes. "I’m so sorry that you had to do that,” I say, and her lower lip trembles.

“You don’t hate me?” she asks, her voice as soft as a whisper. “After all that, you still think I’m a good person?”

"What are you talking about?" I ask, shocked at the words coming out of her mouth. “Did we not just hear the same story?"

"But …" she starts. I hold up my hand, and she shakes her head. “But I enabled them."

"Enabled them," I repeat the word. “Is that what you did?" She looks at me. “I see someone who did what they did in order to survive. You, Willow Davis," I say her full name, her eyes on mine. “You are the epitome of a survivor."