Chapter 4

FOUR

Present Day

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I smooth a hand down the side of my floor-length, patchwork, earth-toned boho skirt. It’s wrinkly. It’s supposed to be. It adds texture, but I don’t know if this is the right outfit to wear to the shop today… ya know, on the day. Perhaps I should rock head-to-toe black. Meh. I don’t know why I’m overthinking this.

Grumbling at my indecision, I adjust my knitted, copper-colored, cropped tank so my bra doesn’t show. I picked this little cutie up from a boutique in the town over. It’s handmade perfection. There’s something special about wearing clothes made by another person, not a machine. Don’t you agree?

On one of the talon jewelry hooks on my wall, I untangle my cream macramé necklace and dig through my crystal-filled selenite bowl in the corner of my vanity. Did you know selenite cleanses crystals? If you didn’t. Now you do. I select a gorgeous, tumbled tiger’s eye because it matches my outfit and provides protection. Slipping the wooden bead up the necklace, I place the crystal inside, slide the bead back into place, and over my head it goes, setting in the space between my breasts. To connect with Mother Earth in one of the many ways my mother taught me, I pick two much smaller tumbled crystals from the bowl and tuck them into my bra, underneath my breasts, so you can’t see the slight bulge. Boob rocks are what I’ve grown to call them. Silly, perhaps. But I would rather go into the world protected in any way possible—a little jade for luck and carnelian for courage doesn’t hurt anyone.

Sorting through more necklaces, and I have a ton, I pick two more in varying lengths to layer. From another hook, I collect a shitload of bracelets—some beaded, some braided, and a few jangly ones, all of them in tones that compliment my outfit.

If you haven’t caught on yet, I’m stalling.

Sunshine’s in the living room, doom scrolling on his phone as I drag my feet. Sure, I’m excited to see whatever gift gifts he’s brought me. I’m nervous, too. I never go to work without looking at least somewhat put together. What kind of example would I be setting if I did that?

Opening the overstuffed drawer all of us makeup lovers have, I stare into the abyss of lipsticks, more eyeshadow pallets than I can count on two hands, and every popular must-have mascara, eyeliner, and fancy brush online influencers rave about.

Wasting no time, because I have my makeup routine down to a science, I get to work. Moisturizer first, no foundation. Thanks to a killer nighttime skincare routine, I have gorgeous skin for my age. Ew. No. I hate those words. When you’re twenty, you never say for my age . Once you hit your mid-thirties, it becomes second nature. I don’t like it. So, let’s make a pact right here and now that neither of us ever say that shit again. For someone our age. You mean someone with laugh lines. Someone who has lived a little or a lot. Nope. We’re owning our bodies and our style.

I sweep a peachy blush across my cheeks and get to the fun stuff. Adding a smidge of earthy orange shadow to my lid, I deepen it with a rich brown for a smokey eye and finish with a shimmery copper to intensify the look. On goes three swipes of mascara, yes three, thin eyeliner, and a rich, brown lip with a little coppery shimmer in the center.

Giving myself an approving once-over, I blow my reflection a kiss in the mirror and smile.

What a transformation.

I look good, if I do say so myself.

Emboldened to finish today’s fashionable look, I use the curling wand that’s been cooking in my sink—don’t come for me, that’s where it goes—to curl the ends of my chest-length hair to add a bit of chunky texture.

With a quick wipe to rid any loose eyeshadow from my face and a dab of a sexy essential oil blend to my pulse points. I tidy up and turn off the curler before heading into the bedroom. In the closet, I snag a brown cardigan off a hanger. It’s too damn cold to leave the house with bare arms, and brown fashion boots from the shoe rack.

Alright.

Let’s do this thing.

I’m ready.

Running back into the bathroom really quick, I snag a few smaller crystals from my bowl and stuff them into my cardigan pocket for later. Then I make the grand exit—hips swaying with false confidence, my boots click, click, click across the hardwood floor, as I join Sunshine in the living room. He’s exactly where I said he was, chilling on my couch, booted feet up on my coffee table, ankles crossed.

The moment he looks up from his phone, his eyes round, and he whistles. “Damn, Sweets, you look amazing.”

Pressing my lips together as my stomach fizzes from his compliment, I curtsy. It’s wobbly and far from graceful, but it draws a warm chuckle from Sunshine as he unfolds from the sofa to stand and stretches both arms above his head, expelling a loud yawn.

“You ready to blow this popsicle stand?” He offers me his hand, palm up, and I clasp mine in his.

“Let’s do it.”

I snag my purse from the table by the front door on the way out and wait on the porch for Sunshine to lock up, his hand still in mine. Knowing now is as good of time as ever, I fish a crystal from my cardigan and sneak it into his front jeans pocket with a single finger.

Keys jangling from his index finger, Sunshine turns to me. “What d'ya give me today?” His gaze flicks to where his new crystal lives. The bulge is indiscernible through the denim. This isn’t my first rodeo. This is how we leave the house together. Our little song and dance. He locks up, and I slide a crystal into his pocket. His work van has an entire cup holder full of my gifts.

“Blue Howlite.”

“What’s this one for?” he asks as we walk down the porch steps together and over to my newish Bronco parked in the driveway beside his van. Sunshine opens the passenger door for me to climb in. If I’m going anywhere with him, I’m not driving. He won’t let me. I lost that battle decades ago. In his mind, women are to be taken care of. Chauffeuring them around is his brand of chivalry, at least in his mind. I don’t care either way.

“It’s for calm and patience,” I explain as I settle into my seat.

His brow furrows. “Because of Dark?”

I set my purse on the floor beside my feet. “Yes… and me.”

Cuffing his hand over the top of my open door, Sunshine tilts his head to the side as his expression softens. “Sweets, there’s never any reason I need patience ’cause of you. Yeah? You’re my home. It’s that simple. The Dark shit will sort itself out as it always does. It would be a helluva lot easier if he’d just sign the divorce papers and let you move on with your life.”

In that, we agree.

Five sets of divorce papers in eight years, all of them ripped to shreds. The one time I had the courage to file and take him to court, he pulled some sort of magical puppet strings and had it thrown out. Now, I’m still married to a man who’s with another woman, and he’s still just as stubborn in refusing to divorce me. It’s selfish. Everyone knows this. It’s been going on for so long that everyone else in our lives besides me, Sunshine, and I’m assuming Abby, because she is his woman, doesn’t care. We’re just a couple, a non-couple, with a complicated relationship.

Not knowing how to respond, because Sunshine sure has a way of throwing me for an emotional loop, I nod once, and he shuts me in the truck. Rounding the hood, he hops in, fires the engine, and backs us out as I select a rock playlist to jam to on our ten-mile drive to my work.

We’re on the road for five minutes, and Sunshine’s fingers are tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of “Hotel California” , when I finally break the silence.

“What’d you do with the stalker?”

“I made it quick.”

Good.

“Through the head?”

“Through the head,” he confirms. “It wasn’t messy.” Easing to a stop, he flicks his blinker on and looks both ways before turning left, past my favorite ice cream shop that’s only open when it’s warm outside. Their homemade chocolate custard with hot fudge sounds amazing right now. In a cup, with a waffle cone on top, looking a lot like a dunce’s cap.

Sunshine catches me staring wistfully at the hot pink building with colorful sprinkles painted on the exterior and chuckles. “It’ll open in the spring.”

I grumble under my breath. “I wish this would stop happening.”

“Which part? The stalkers or the dairy bar bein’ closed in the winter?” There’s laughter in his voice. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how to take me. That makes two of us. Sometimes, I don’t know how to take me either.

“Both,” I reply, even though I meant the stalker. If they stopped popping up, there wouldn’t be any messes to clean up. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind messes. These just feel… pointless—a waste.

“Ya know, that may never happen.”

“I know.” And I do. I get it. This is my curse. An unwanted gift from my mother. She always had men chasing her. Though, from her own admission, she often opened her legs for them to fulfill her own sexual needs first, only to send them on their way. Unfortunately, they didn’t want to go. They wanted more. I never understood why. Not then and surely not now.

“Men want what they can’t have, Kali,” Sunshine explains. “You’re nice to them. A lot of men won’t take no for an answer.” Reaching across the truck, he pats my knee in reassurance.

No matter how many times we discuss this at length, it never clicks. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time, Sunshine and I have this exact conversation.

“He came into the shop every day I was working for over a month.” That’s how this almost always starts.

“And you treated him like a human being.”

That’s true. I treat everyone like a human being unless they give me a reason not to. Trust me, there are people who give me a reason not to. Plenty.

“I know,” I reply, because what else is there to say?

“You probably smiled and asked him questions, to be polite.”

My lips tipped into a frown, I shrug. “He didn’t have anybody. His mom died last year. His brother stopped talking to him after that. What was I supposed to do? Be a bitch? Throw him out?”

“Well, he won’t be a problem anymore.”

No. I guess he won’t. Dan was one of the nicer stalkers. They all start out that way. Flirting when they come in to see me. Sometimes, they bring me flowers I refuse to accept. Sometimes, there’s more extreme love bombing—money, jewelry, expensive designer bags. Each gift I return, the more adamant they get until they eventually follow me home, take pictures of me through the windows, and masturbate in their cars for me to witness. It’s supposed to be flattering, I think. But it’s just sad. This year alone, I’ve had two stalkers. Last year, three. Similar patterns. Same outcomes. I’m the one who usually handles business. For once, it was nice I didn’t have to.

Staring out the side window, watching the world fly by, I sigh at the heaviness of it all. At the heaviness of the day. At the heaviness of… life. “I know you didn’t have time to clean up the mess before Lily woke up, so did you call Angel?”

“Yeah. He was closest.”

Makes sense. When you need shit done, you call Angel—a Sacred Sinner nomad, just like Dark and Sunshine. He’s a close, personal friend. Reliable and efficient. The stalker’s blue sedan is probably in a chop shop by now, pieced down for parts. His body, however, they handle the bodies. I don’t ask questions. It’s none of my business. Just as what I do isn’t theirs. We respect those boundaries.

Pulling out my phone from inside my purse, I find Angel’s number in my contacts.

Me: Thanks for your help today.

Angel: Never a problem. I’m always here for you, gorgeous. Whatever you need. Hit me up yourself next time. Yeah?

Head shaking from the driver's seat, Sunshine snickers as he turns down the town's main street not far from the shop. “You're texting Angel to thank him, aren’t you?”

“It’s the right thing to do, Colton,” I scold playfully. “Just as I’m gonna thank you, probably a thousand times, once I get my gift gifts.”

“Sweets…” My nickname’s drawled on a sigh, one that communicates me thanking him is unnecessary. That’s where he’d be wrong.

“What? It’s true. You should already know that.”

“I do. But it’s unnecessary.”

See. Told ya.

I hum in disagreement as Sunshine drives past the shop and turns up the next alley to park behind the building—the employee's entrance.

At the back of the old brick building, there are two doors—one at the street level where the stores are and another that goes down a small flight of steps beneath the main spaces.

Sunshine kills the engine.

I unlatch my seatbelt and turn toward him.

He reaches out and lays a warm hand on my knee. “They should be downstairs.”

I rest my palm on top of the skull tattoo on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth kicks into the sweetest of grins, crinkling the edges of his eyes that sparkle in the early afternoon sun. “I want what’s best for you. Always.” He squeezes my knee.

Returning the gesture in kind, I squeeze the top of his hand. “I know. Now I’m gonna go see my gift gifts, and you go upstairs.” I jut my chin toward the back door of the building. “Till should be working. She’ll be happy to see you.”

“If you need me?—”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“I’m not leavin’ ‘til morning.”

“I sure as hell hope not. You’d miss the party.”

Sunshine laughs, deep and rumbly. It settles something in me as it always has. “Well, alrighty then.”

With a final pat on the back of his hand, I grab my purse from the floor and exit the truck. As I descend the basement steps, Sunshine enters through the rear of the shop, no doubt to be greeted by his biggest fans.

Pausing at the steel door, the camera does its standard scan. Recognizing me, the lock disengages, and I pull the handle to go inside.

The warmth from the heater, steeped with the scent of vanilla and baked goods, wafts in my face, drawing a smile to the surface as I wade into our base—the safe house, ground zero for our operations. I set my purse on the metal console table by the entrance of the great room that unfurls into an old-school office space like the ones you see in those noir detective films—wainscoting, cream walls, and sectioned-off rooms with brass-handled doors that have windows, some of them frosted for privacy. The wood accents and well-preserved brick exterior walls add a rich layer of coziness to the entire space.

There’s a wall of whiteboards and a wall of newspaper clippings pinned to cork—trophies for the women of a job well done. In the center of the main living space is a family-sized table, large enough to seat twelve and up to sixteen if you squeeze in like sardines. Two familiar faces look up from eating as I approach, each of them smiling.

“Hey, boss.” Dina waves her spoon in hello before diving back into her bowl of cereal.

Sam, the quiet one, two-finger waves.

I scan the room, looking for what I came down here for—to meet and greet. That is my job, after all. This is my place.

When Dina notices me linger, she points her spoon to the far side of the room, where Cell works her computer hacker magic in a deep alcove once used as a hallway.

Standing behind our resident smarty pants are two heads I don’t recognize, watching one of Cell’s five screens lit up with a shit load of information about various groups and people we keep tabs on around the country.

They say nothing as she points animatedly to a set of six black-and-white photos she throws up on the screen. One of them is the infamous sex trafficker, Remy Whitaker. He’s the reason almost all of these women are here today, apart from myself.

“That’s him.” She gestures to the tatted-out male in the center—full beard, big muscles, screwed-up expression. The other photos are of his top dogs. The men who are just as bad as him—if not worse. He runs his enterprise from an ivory tower, swimming in money from the sale of humans. While those assholes are on the ground, running auctions, or worse, baby factories, where they sedate pregnant women at the end of their third trimester, deliver the babies, and dispose of the mother’s corpses like they were yesterday’s trash. Vile doesn’t even begin to put a name to what they do. Those newborns are part of an underground adoption system for sickos and rich pricks alike.

When Cell gets through with her colorful explanation of the douchiest of douchebags, her words, not mine, I clear my throat to let them know I’m present.

“Oh, shit.” Cell giggles and blushes ten shades of pink as she shoots up from her chair and sends it flying into the wall. “H-hey, Boss Lady, how long you been standing there?” She retrieves the runaway seat and throws herself into it, sending it and herself back under the edge of her desk.

“Long enough.” I wink in her direction as the two women Sunshine delivered turn to face me.

These are the gift gifts I was going on about.

His presents to me.

The one not much taller than me, at my below-average five foot four, is curvy, with long blonde hair and a heart-shaped cherub face. She smiles much like Cell does, full of life.

The other woman, a thin brunette who looks very much like your average girl next door, wrings her finger in front of her as she chews on her bottom lip, refusing to make eye contact. Alright, so this one is shy and was probably tortured a time or two. That’s normal around these parts. I know it’s messed up, but these women are here because of their histories. It’s molded them into what we need for our operations—intel. That’s what we do. We get in, we get information, we get out. Occasionally, some sisters, that’s what we call ourselves, go undercover, assimilate, build relationships with the scum of the earth, and deliver information by means that put them in a direct line of danger. I used to be one of them. Others, Cell, in particular, prefer to work behind the scenes—away from the bad men.

“Hello, ladies, I’m Kali.” Keeping my distance out of respect for what they’ve gone through, I wave to the ladies and smile. It’s genuine. I’m glad they’re here.

“She’s our boss,” Cell chimes in from her chair as she spins around in it like a child, and I good-naturedly roll my eyes. I’m not anyone’s boss, not in the militant, you-better-follow-my-orders nonsense. We’re a family here—end of discussion.

Undeterred, I continue my introduction. “I’m sure being here is a little scary with all you’ve been through. So, why don’t you two follow me?” I sweep my hand toward the great room. “I’ll show you around your new home and get you settled into your rooms.”

Wanting to have a little one-on-one with the ladies, away from the rest of the sisters, I show them around their new underground home that runs half the block beneath the storefronts. The ceilings are tall, industrial, and painted black. The lighting is soft, with none of those harsh fluorescents to worry about.

In the main space, we pass Sam and Dina, still at the table eating.

They wave but say nothing.

The women return their gestures in kind.

Off to the furthest side is the communal living room, with three overstuffed couches and a giant television mounted on the brick wall.

The kitchen is a hop, skip, and a jump from there, tucked into an old, spacious office supply room. Thanks to the help of the Sacred Sinners, it’s industrial, with all the bells and whistles you could ever want—a massive double-sided fridge and matching freezer, a steel table that runs the center of the room as a prep space and makeshift island, and an open shelf where they store all the bigger kitchen gadgets.

On the counter, Till left a plate full of chocolate chip and double chocolate cookies—my favorite. I snatch one up and scoot the plate to the edge. “Have at ‘em,” I encourage the ladies.

The blonde accepts a double chocolate like mine as the brunette declines with a meek shake of the head. By the looks of her, I’m guessing she doesn’t eat much. Eating disorders come with the territory here, as do mental health problems. We have a therapist most of these women see via telehealth. It’s mandatory at first and after assignments.

Out of the communal space, we enter a hallway lined with former offices—all of them have wooden doors, brass knobs, and frosted windows. Crisp white numbers adorn their fronts. Number two houses the laundry. Three is a storage room. Four and five spans two large offices converted into a bathroom. Multiple white subway-tiled shower stalls flank one side with curtains for privacy. In the center, there are sinks with mirrors mounted above them on the brick wall that separates the shower area from the row of toilet stalls. Along the back wall are hooks and a row of short lockers for the sisters to store their stuff. It has your standard college dorm vibe, but that’s what they sign up for. Nothing about this is forced. It’s an option they're given from where they once came. Yes, I know that’s vague. I don’t know their backstories, only that in order to be here, you’ve had to have gone through some shit. Ugly shit. Then have gone through extensive therapy and rehabilitation to be welcomed back into the real world.

Cell was sold as a child to some rich fuck and found as a teenager when she escaped. By some miracle, she ran into the right bikers outside a truck stop one night. She’s open about her lived experiences, as it helps many of the new sisters feel welcome and at ease. The newbies have probably been hanging with her since they arrived. She’s that fun, over-the-top kid sister everyone doesn’t want but needs in their life.

Once we’ve hit all the common areas, I show the ladies to their new bedrooms. I keep each room stocked and ready for any of Sunshine’s unexpected visits. He’s not one to give me a heads- up, as he rarely knows about the pickups until hours before I do. That doesn’t leave much time to communicate in the middle of the night, which is when they always arrive, under the guise of dark, just in case any of the fuckers who try to keep tabs on the Sacred Sinners follow.

Opening the side-by-side doors, I sweep my hand for the women to enter whichever room they prefer. They’re clones of each other, much like a hotel room—full-sized bed, white sheets, fluffy white duvet, brand-new pillows, a dresser with a small television on top, a short rod mounted to the wall with hangers, a mini-fridge, and a small cupboard area with a sink, and just enough counter space for a microwave. The walls are white, and the floor is hardwood with a small area rug for warmth.

“Welcome to your new home,” I announce. “Whenever you’re ready, I’d like us to talk in the living room.”

With that, I give them space to settle in as I happy dance all the way to the common room and dramatically fall onto the couch, ousting a ridiculously loud squeal.

I have new sisters.

New women to bring into the fold.

I’m so damn excited!

Sunshine is getting all the hugs for this—all the thank yous and rocks for his pockets.

Leaving her little corner, Cell drops on the couch across from me, as does Dina. Sam disappears, which is what Sam does best. If I didn’t know the woman, I wouldn’t know she lived here. She’s a ghost most of the time. It’s a miracle she was eating at the table when I arrived.

Righting myself on the sofa, I fold my hands into my lap, all prim and proper and shit. “I love it when we get new sisters.”

“I know! This is fun. I wonder what they’ll think of the rest of us. I hope they fit in. I’m sure they will. Bonez wouldn’t send them here without knowing they’d work. He’s smart,” Cell yammers faster than a subway train.

“That’s true, and with Rosie now vetting everyone first, I’m sure they’ll work out for the best.” I sit back on the couch. It’s so deep my feet come off the floor.

“Bongo sent so many new opportunities for us to work our magic this week.” Cell rubs her hands together like a bad guy in a movie.

“I don’t know if they're ready for fieldwork yet. They just got here.”

“But you said Rosie already met them,” she counters.

This is true. Rosie is our unofficial badass sister from the south. Having worked in the thick of things with the sex trafficking world for years, she gets the final say in who joins us. For the longest time, the Sacred Sinners sent us too many women. One out of five would stick around long enough to get into the field. Most were sent back into the real world. You may think you want to work intel to make a difference, but it can be a dark and scary place. If you were one of those taken for a long time, beaten, raped, or tortured, you might not want to be anywhere near that world, no matter the cost or the reward, and there’s no shame in that. This lifestyle isn’t for everyone.

“Did they give you their names?” I ask Cell.

Her mop of blonde curls shakes. “I didn’t ask. Sunshine’s buzzer thingy rang early this morning. I let them in, and they slept on the couches most of the morning. I just got them up and talking right before you got here.”

“It doesn’t matter anyhow,” Dina interjects, tucking herself into the corner of the couch as she picks her nails with the tip of a pocketknife. “We get to choose our names. Cell isn’t your real name, just as Dina isn’t mine.”

“True. True.” Cell nods along enthusiastically. “I was kept in a cell. It seemed fitting to have a name that reminded me of that.”

“You’re a morbid bitch.” Dina snickers, and I grin at the fact that, yes, Cell is indeed a morbid bitch to the core. I don’t think anyone could do the job she does if they weren’t.

Owning who she is, Cell raises the roof old-school style as her shoulders swivel in an awkward wannabe dance. “That I am, sister. That. I. Am,” she sings.

Before long, we are joined by the two newbies. They sit beside each other on the last couch. The brunette stares at her fingers as the blonde forces a tight smile.

“How’d you like your rooms?” I ask, hoping to make this transition as easy as possible. You don’t ask too many questions with new sisters. You keep it light. You give them all the information they need to settle in and cross your fingers that they trust you enough to open up in the coming weeks. Most of them find a sister or two to bond with. From the looks of things, these two will be a unit, much like Till and me.

“The room’s nice,” the blonde answers as the brunette remains impassive.

“Good. Good. I assume you met with Rosie before coming here?”

“Yes.” The blonde presses her lips together and nods. “She briefed us about this place and taught us some self-defense.”

“How long were you there?” Cell asks, ever the nosy nelly.

Eyebrows raised in warning, I stare her down for pushing too far too fast, but Cell shrugs as if she’s not being invasive.

“I got there a few days before Beth.” The blonde bumps shoulders with her companion. “We were there about a month.”

Navigating away from Rosie talk, I focus on something else instead, like introductions. “It’s nice to meet you, Beth… and…” I pause and smile at the talkative one, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

“Oh.” The blonde giggles, fingers fluttering at her chest in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m Destiny.”

“Are those your real names?” Cell cuts in, hands flailing as if she’s got a million things to say and can’t get them out fast enough. “Because I’m sure you’ve been told you don’t have to keep those. Some sisters feel better getting a whole new identity when they come into this world. Do you want a new identity? It’s okay if you don’t. We won’t judge you. Kali’s just Kali. She was named after a goddess. Her ex-husband Dark, you’ll meet him sometime, he’s kind of grumpy. Oh, and Sunshine, who’s her ex-father-in-law, friend, whatever…” The motormouth waves her words off. “He’s the hot guy who dropped you off this morning. They have Kali tattoos. Of the Goddess, not her. Well. I mean, I guess they’re her, too?—”

“Cell,” I interject. “Breathe.”

Hunched forward on the couch, she nods on repeat like a bobblehead doll, drawing in a deep, audible breath.

Damn. That’s far more information than these women need to know now or ever. If you’re wondering, which I am sure you are, thanks to Cell’s big mouth…Yes, my name is Kali. Yes, I was named after what she said I was. Yes, my ex and his father have tattoos of her in honor of me. No, I didn’t know about them until after they got them done. Both have the Goddess tattooed on their left side, spanning from armpit to hip in full color. That’s all I’ll say about it. It was a long time ago. They made stupid choices I see every time they have their shirts off. I try not to notice, but it’s hard to miss when the Hindu Goddess is depicted in blue, has multiple arms, her tongue sticking out, and looks like a total badass, which is why my mother named me after her. Kali is the Hindu Goddess of death and rebirth, embodying the power of creation and destruction in one entity, transcending good and evil. She is Mother Nature. She is the Goddess of time. So basically, she’s the baddest of bad bitches.

Dina snorts at Cell’s enthusiasm. Yeah. That’s what we’ll call it. I wonder how much caffeine our resident smarty pants had this morning. Knowing her, it was an entire pot of coffee.

Unfazed by our lively sister, the blonde continues the conversation as if she caught everything Cell gushed. “Oh. Yes. I know. My name’s not really Destiny. When I was rescued from a barn a couple of years ago, I didn’t want to be the old me. Bonez said it was okay.”

“It is,” I confirm, not knowing what else to say. I smooth down the side of my skirt.

A tear slips down Beth’s cheek and plops onto her lap. “I don’t want to be Beth anymore. I don’t want to be her anymore.” She swipes the back of her hand across her face to clear the wetness, and my heart aches for her.

“Hey. That’s totally fine. I know this is a lot to take in. You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to ever again.”

Beth nods along to my words, her movements jerky as if she’s deep inside her head, floating in a world of unpleasant emotions. Also, normal. This takes a lot to process. New surroundings. A whole new life. A new job.

“Dina and Cell will be here anytime you need something…. and those stairs…” My words are soft as I point to the corner of the room. “Lead up to the shop. You’re welcome to visit anytime during open hours. Many of the women you probably saw milling about this morning work there during the day. They’ll show you around, and next week, or whenever you’re ready, they’ll walk you through your responsibilities up there.”

The women listen intently as I fill in whatever they need to know. Every sister has a job here, whether that’s working in the store, cleaning the apartment like Dina does, or nerding out like Cell. We are a family. We support the others. To drive that point home, Cell gets up and grabs a box of tissues. She hands them to Beth before returning to her spot on the couch.

For however long it takes, I sit back and talk to Destiny and Beth. I answer any questions they may have. Cell chimes in as she always does, and Dina adds whatever I might have missed. When the women finally relax, their tears become a distant memory. When the smiles come naturally, and they seem to breathe easier, that’s my cue to be done for the day.

Sliding to the edge of the couch, I look each sister in the eye long enough to connect, but not too long that I make it weird. “We’re having a party upstairs tonight. You’re welcome to join if you’d like.”

Leaving them to their own devices, I climb the steps to join Sunshine at the shop, where Till is likely talking his ear off or trying to get into his pants. You never know what you’ll get with those two.