I stumble back into the bedroom and sit on the bed. Feeling sick to my stomach over the part I played in his disgusting plan.
I kidnapped her from her normal life. Her normal self. And I took her back to him. I did everything he wanted me to.
I broke her.
I did that.
On purpose.
For him.
“Oh, fuck.” I lean over and prop my head in my hands.
And that’s when I see her stupid unicorn backpack. Kinda peeking out from under a towel near the bathroom. I must’ve tossed the towel on the floor and it landed on the backpack.
I get up, grab it, and sit back down. Open it up and start pulling out sexy underwear. Her sick fuck of a stepfather probably has her dressed in cotton panties and training bras by now. Knee-high tube socks and pigtails.
I reach for the last sexy bra and find… a cell phone?
She had a cell phone? Where did she get a cell phone? Her purse… she left that in the bar. She sure as fuck didn’t have it in the van.
It’s a very old flip phone. A burner phone, I realize. And there’s a list of missed message notifications on her home screen.
Daddy. They are all from Daddy.
I close my eyes and pray I don’t see something I can’t unsee. Then open them again and press the message to bring up the full stream.
And I lean over and puke right on my floor.
There are pictures of her. She was sending him daily pictures from that princess room. And there are messages to go with them.
Her father’s messages start out innocent enough. How are you doing? Feeling better? I’m so glad you’re safe now.
And Lyssa’s responses are wild and angry, as they should be. Fuck you. I hate you. I hope you rot in hell.
But as the days go on, they change. Hers, not his.
His are all the same. I miss you. I’m glad you’re safe. I’m so glad you’re home where we can take care of you.
But hers… hers lose all the fight with each passing day.
I don’t feel right. I want to go home. Please don’t do this.
And his… Send me a photo, Princess. So I know you’re getting better.
Which she does. Just her pouty face.
At first.
But then her messages morph into, I won’t be bad anymore. I promise. I’ll do what you want. I’ll be good from now on.
And his stay the same. Send me a photo, Princess. So I know you’re getting better.
Then hers become… I miss you. Will you come see me?
And the pictures that follow are not just of her face. And she no longer needs his prompting.
She sends them on her own.
I want to throw this phone at the wall. I even raise my arm up to do that when logical me takes over.
No.
I can use this this. I can use this to free her. There has to be something in this phone that will help me do that.
There is a way to fix this, I just need to think clearly and figure it out. Put all the information I gathered about her and from her and come up with the real reason why all this shit is happening.
So I pace in front of my windows and start from the beginning. Putting the pieces together like a puzzle. Like Lyssa is one of my bond jumpers and it’s my job to figure out where she is and how to get her in my possession.
First clue. Lyssa in the bar. Gold-dress Lyssa. Wild Thing Lyssa.
That was the real her. Not the one I found in the files in that office, because that’s yet some other version of Lyssa I don’t understand yet.
That girl who danced and laughed. That girl who fought back and kneed me in the balls. Punched me in the face and did everything she could to get away from me that night. That was the real deal.
She is the Wild Thing. But that’s not bad. That’s good, actually.
Second clue. Lyssa at the house. She changed into someone else almost immediately after her stepfather showed up.
I helped her. I feel horrible about that. I played right into her stepfather’s scheming and helped her change.
The punishments. My doing. The kid clothes and food, his doing. But I delivered them to her. Just like I was supposed to.
And now that I’ve seen these messages on this phone, some of that makes sense.
But not all of it.
Because there’s the third clue. The long criminal record.
I have no doubt that record is real. No doubt at all. It’s just everything about those charges… that’s fake. I know it. It’s got to be fake. That’s not my Lyssa. That’s not any version of Lyssa I can imagine.
Then the fourth clue. The deed to the house.
This is the part I can’t prove and need to. This is the part—if my suspicions are correct—that will make this whole disgusting thing make sense.