Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

"You get the money, girl?" Lita asked the second Emily walked into the cell.

"No. And there won't be any, so do what you gotta do." Emily slid into the lower bunk, pulling the charcoal gray blanket up to her chin.

"We had a deal."

"Deal's fucking off, so either kill me or shut the hell up."

Lita raised her hands. "Whoa, girl. I got six days left. Not getting my hands dirty."

Emily gave her a look. "Just like you weren't really going to protect me, right?"

"Can't blame a girl for tryin' to make a buck."

Emily's bubbling rage flowed into a steady stream of bitterness as the truth about Charge seeped in. Word by word, lie by lie, he'd played her.

"Get up, Lita." Emily hopped from her bunk, tossing the blanket to the floor while Knives roused from her sleep to watch what was about to go down.

"Wassup witchoo, girl?" Lita said, staying put.

"I'll tell you what's up," Emily seethed. "I was manipulated by a hit man into running an entire group of them in El Paso, partially funded by the world's biggest cocaine dealer, who controlled the border for years, which sadly was a better alternative to what we have now: the Heroin King. Narcos aren't nice men, but the Heroin King's the sort who doesn't mind selling children to make a buck. What's up is that I took out his lead sicario , and I stole a million dollars from him after my team members killed his son." What a horrible night that had been. "Now there's a price on my head for it. So if you want to know what's up , the answer is I've got bigger issues than you, and I'm not taking your shit. Tell everyone here, including the guards, that if they want a piece of me, then come and get it. Just know, I'll put up a fucking fight and take out as many of you as I can before I go because it doesn't matter one little fuck to me." She lowered her head, putting her nose to nose with Lita. "I'm already dead."

And it had been a slow, painful death without her even knowing. Pieces of her had withered away in that closet after being beaten by Ed; in that pest control office, being played by Charge; in that warehouse, being shot up with heroin and beaten by the cartel; and in that prison cell in the supermax, hoping for a rescue that never came. The final piece just died in that visitation room, realizing Charge never cared about her. It had always been about the work. Suite forty-five.

Emily ground her teeth. "Tell everyone, you can't kill someone who's already dead, and you sure as hell can't scare her."

***

Sometimes, during moments of anger, people said things they didn't mean, but that moment with Lita had been Emily's coming to Jesus, and she regretted nothing. Coming to the realization that she'd never truly gained control of her life felt like a lightning bolt to the soul. Shock and pain, followed by a vivid awareness.

She might have physically gotten free from her ex, but mentally, he still owned her, and he always would if she looked to others for a rescue. Charge was just another Ed, trying to control her for his own reasons. No, she couldn't claim they were the same men, but they had plenty in common. Using her, for one. Lying constantly, too.

If she wanted to reclaim her life—her true freedom—it was up to her now, and the first step was complete. Acceptance. She alone had made the choices that led her here. She'd chosen to marry a bad man. She'd chosen to trust another. She'd ignored her gut repeatedly, giving in to fear instead. What will happen if I try to leave Ed? What will happen if I expose Ed? What if I don't take this job at the sketchy pest control company? How will I eat? If I don't save Charge, will it make me a bad person?

Her choices had been about avoiding her fears or giving in to them instead of pushing her energy in the opposite direction. She could've gone to college or learned a trade after high school. She could've joined the military or gotten a job. But no. She'd chosen to go to Atlantic City with those girls from the group home. Why? Because it had been easier to go along and blame everyone else for her shitty hand in life.

Otherwise, she would've gotten on that bus home to Maine all those years ago and never seen Ed again. Or she would've filed charges and left Ed the moment he hit her. She would've turned him in the second she found out how he really made enough money to buy a boat. She would've left the moment she saw the run-down pest control office without customers. I never would've returned to El Paso.

But with this clarity, she finally understood one thing: all those moments had been her self-inflicted undoing. She'd made those choices, and she owned them. No one else. The victim story she'd been telling herself was bullshit.

Not that there weren't moments in her life when she'd been victimized, but being subjected to cruelty and violence didn't make one a victim with regard to their entire persona. For most, the status of victim was situational. Like when a policeman filed a report after an assault. One person was the victim, the other the assailant. Purely situational. The victim didn't walk around for the rest of their life identifying as a victim.

Emily could even argue that repeated victim situations over many years still didn't make a person a victim in their entirety. Yet, that was what she'd believed since her father passed away, followed by Aunt Mary. She saw herself as a victim of life instead of understanding that those were merely difficult moments. The truth was, she'd never been a real victim, the sort where their situations in life were the very definition of it.

She had never been a young girl sold to the cartel and then chained to a bed in a whorehouse until she died of disease, violence, or a drug overdose. She wasn't one of the mothers who'd had her daughter taken by these degenerates. All around the world, there were people trapped in a state of victimhood. Their existences were the very definition of being a victim. But for the rest, the label was transitory. Situational.

Regardless, the word only defined a person if they chose to let it. So, as angry as it made her, as hard as it was to accept, the truth was now clear. She had always been in charge.

And I want out of here. She wanted her life back. And she didn't mean the one where she worked for hit men or lived on the run. She wanted a rewarding job, to marry her soul mate, and maybe have a family. She wanted to sit on the porch and sip iced tea in July and pet her dog—or cat—whichever she adopted. She wanted a partner who didn't hold back when it came to honesty and who wouldn't hold her past against her. He'd see her luggage as a sort of graduation certificate from the school of hard knocks that demonstrated her true nature. A fighter. A survivor. A good woman who wanted to live an honest life in a world that was far from perfect, but worth fighting for.

And I want to sleep in! No more running at the crack of dawn because she'd been programmed to. No more depriving herself of joy, good food, or love.

But none of those things would happen if she didn't find a way out of this. On her own terms. No more obedience. No more killing. No more Eds, Charges, deals, or trade-offs.

Emily went up to the guard who manned the door leading to the work areas inside the prison.

"Hi. I'd like to report a guard who tried to rape me. And I want to see a lawyer. I'm pressing charges."