Caleb's fingers found Elizabeth's elbow—not a grip, not quite a caress, but something between. A signal. She turned her head, her brown eyes catching his in the warm light of the hallway, and whatever she saw in his face made her nod once, almost imperceptibly, before he spoke.
"Give me a minute with you and Sarah."
His voice was low, flat, the same tone he used when he was measuring something—a weight, a risk, a crack he wasn't sure would hold. Elizabeth didn't ask. She just turned from the kitchen counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and followed him toward the basement door.
The hinges sighed as he pulled it open. Cool air rose to meet them, damp and still, carrying the smell of concrete and old dust and the faint metallic tang of the suspension frame. Caleb's bare feet found the first step without hesitation. Behind him, Elizabeth's shoes clicked against the wood, a sound that seemed too loud in the sudden quiet.
"Caleb." Her voice was low, careful. "What's this about?"
He didn't answer. Not yet. His hand found the bare bulb's chain at the bottom of the stairs and pulled, and the light hummed to life, casting hard shadows across the workbench, the chains bolted to the wall, the steel frame that dominated the center of the room.
And Sarah.
She was already rising from the corner near the frame, her silhouette detaching from the shadows like something born from them. The chains at her wrists and ankles clinked—faint, musical—as she shifted her weight, her eyes adjusting to the sudden light. She was naked except for the collar around her throat and the plug between her legs, its ponytail base brushing the inside of her thigh as she stood. Her hair, cut short now, was mussed, and there were faint marks on her skin from the flogger—fading, but not gone.
She didn't speak. She just looked at Caleb, her eyes tracking his face, his posture, the set of his jaw. Reading him the way she had learned to read him over the past days. The way a dog learns its master's moods before a word is spoken.
Caleb stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his feet flat on the cold concrete. He stood between them—Elizabeth on the last step, Sarah near the frame—and for a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the bulb and the distant sound of water running through a pipe somewhere in the walls.
Elizabeth's hand found the doorframe, her fingers brushing the wood. She didn't rush him. She had spent twenty years reading silences, and she knew this one wasn't hesitation. He was assembling something. Deciding how much to say, and to whom.
Sarah's hand found the chain of her ponytail plug, her fingers curling around the hair that had once belonged to her. It was a nervous gesture, or a grounding one—hard to tell. She held it the way someone might hold a rosary, a touchstone, a reminder of what she had already lost and what she had become.
Caleb's eyes moved between them, grey and flat and cold as winter sky. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost conversational.
"Ava's going to break."
The words landed like a stone in still water. Elizabeth's hand stilled on the frame. Sarah's fingers tightened on the chain.
"I saw it," Caleb continued, his gaze dropping to the concrete floor for a moment, then lifting again. "When Maggie touched her arm. The way she looked at her. It was there—a crack. Maybe nothing. Maybe just guilt." He paused. "But maybe more."
Elizabeth stepped off the last stair, her shoes clicking against the concrete. She moved past him, toward the workbench, her fingers brushing the coiled rope that hung from a hook on the wall. The rope shifted under her touch, a soft friction sound in the quiet.
"You think she'll warn her," Elizabeth said. Not a question.
"I think she might try." Caleb's voice was still flat, but there was something beneath it now—an edge, a threat. "She loves her. I knew that when I built this plan. I counted on it." He turned, looking at the frame, the hooks, the chains. "What I didn't count on was how much it would show."
Sarah's breath came slow and steady, her hand still wrapped around the chain of her plug. She was watching Caleb the way a soldier watches an officer—waiting for the order, not the explanation. Her eyes were clear, her body still. Whatever resistance had once lived in her was gone, burned away by days of use and breaking and the slow, relentless erosion of pride.
"What do you need from us?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse, raw from the gag and the screaming. But it was steady.
Caleb turned to face her, and something in his expression softened—just a fraction, just enough to show he had heard her. That he valued the question.
"If she breaks," he said, "if she tries to warn Maggie, if she hesitates when we move—she gets locked in the guest room until I decide what to do with her." His grey eyes held Sarah's. "You two are my failsafe."
The word hung in the air. Failsafe.
Elizabeth's fingers had stopped moving on the rope. She stood at the workbench, her profile to him, her hand resting on the coil as if she were weighing it. Measuring its length, its strength, its purpose.
"You want Sarah and me to take her down."
"I want you to be ready." Caleb's voice was quiet, but it carried. "Ava knows this house. She knows the routines. If she decides to run, or to warn Maggie, or to fight—she could do damage before I get control of her." He paused, his jaw tightening. "She's stronger than she looks. A dancer's body. She can take punishment, and she can fight through it."
Sarah's hand left the chain of her plug. She stepped forward, her bare feet silent on the cold concrete, until she stood beside the frame, her body angled toward him.
"I can hold her," she said. Quietly. "If it comes to that."
Caleb looked at her. Really looked. His eyes traveled over her—the marks on her skin, the collar around her throat, the plug between her legs, the short-cropped hair that she still touched sometimes, as if expecting the weight that was no longer there.
"I know you can," he said. And there was something in his voice that was almost gentle.
Elizabeth turned from the workbench, the rope still in her hand. She walked toward them, her steps unhurried, her face unreadable. When she reached Caleb, she stopped close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, the brush of her breath against his chest.
"You're planning for the worst," she said. "That's smart. But what about the middle?"
His eyes met hers. "What do you mean?"
"She cracks but doesn't break. She hesitates but doesn't act. She wants to warn Maggie but doesn't know how." Elizabeth's voice was low, measured, the voice of someone who had spent decades reading people in rooms like this one. "That's the dangerous place. The indecision. Because a woman who doesn't know what she wants will do something unpredictable."
Caleb was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You watch her, then. You read her better than I can." He paused. "If you see it—that flicker, that hesitation—you tell me before I act."
"I will." She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, a gesture that was almost tender. "That's what a failsafe does."
Sarah watched them—the way Elizabeth touched him, the way he leaned into her touch, the ease between them—and something flickered in her eyes. Jealousy, maybe. Or something older. A memory of what it felt like to be the new one, the interesting one, the one whose submission was still a discovery.
But she said nothing. She just stood beside the frame, her hand resting on the cold steel, and waited.
Caleb turned back to her, his eyes finding hers in the dim light. "You know the basement. You know the ropes. If I need you to secure her, can you do it?"
Sarah's hand found the chain of her ponytail plug again. She held it, felt the weight of it, the memory of when it had been attached to her head. When she had been someone who could choose.
"Yes," she said. "I can do it."
Caleb held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Good." He glanced up at the stairs, the warm light from the hallway spilling down the top steps. "Maggie's settling in. I gave her the guest room. She thinks she's here to help her sister grieve." A pause. "She'll be here for a month."
Elizabeth let out a low breath. "A month."
"She extended her leave. After Marc died." Caleb's voice was flat again, the grief buried somewhere beneath the strategy. "She wants to be here for Ava. Support her through the funeral arrangements, the estate, the adjustment."
"She wants to be a good sister," Sarah said, and there was something in her voice—not pity, not sympathy, but recognition. As if she understood the shape of that love, even if she could no longer feel it in herself.
"She does," Caleb agreed. "And that's what makes her vulnerable." He turned back to the frame, his hand running along the steel beam, the chains that hung from it. "She trusts Ava completely. She thinks they're going to get through this together." He paused. "She doesn't know Ava is already mine."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of what he was saying. What he was planning. What they were all complicit in.
Elizabeth stepped closer to him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "And if Ava doesn't break?" she asked quietly. "If she holds, and helps us take Maggie without hesitation?"
Caleb turned to look at her, his grey eyes catching the light from the bare bulb. "Then we move forward as planned. Maggie gets the frame. Ava gets her orgasms. And this house gets one more slave."
Sarah's hand tightened on the chain of her plug. Her breath was steady, her eyes clear, her body still. She was thinking, maybe, about the night she had been taken. About the moment she had realized she couldn't fight anymore. About the strange peace that had come after.
"I'll be ready," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "When you need me."
Caleb looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw something beneath it—not warmth, not kindness, but something like acknowledgment. A recognition of what she had given up, what she had become, what she was still willing to offer.
"I know you will," he said.
Elizabeth's hand left his shoulder. She crossed to the workbench, setting the rope back on its hook, her movements deliberate and unhurried. When she turned back, her face was composed, her eyes clear.
"I'll watch Ava tonight. At dinner. After." She paused. "If I see anything, I'll find you."
Caleb nodded. "Good." He looked at Sarah, then at Elizabeth, then back at the stairs. The light from above seemed warmer now, softer, a reminder of the world above the basement—the world where Maggie was unpacking her bag, where Ava was pretending to grieve, where the trap was still being set.
"I need to get back up there," he said. "She'll wonder where I am." He took a step toward the stairs, then stopped, turning back. "Keep the door unlocked. If I call down once—one sharp whistle—you come up. Both of you."
Elizabeth nodded. Sarah's hand found the chain of her ponytail plug, her fingers curling around the hair that had once been hers, and she held it like a promise, like a vow, like the last piece of herself she was still allowed to keep.
"We'll be here," Elizabeth said.
Caleb held her gaze for a moment, then turned and climbed the stairs, his bare feet silent on the wooden steps. The door opened, spilling warm light into the basement, and then closed, leaving Elizabeth and Sarah alone in the dim glow of the bare bulb.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence was different now—less weighted, more expectant. Two women who had been broken in different ways, standing together in the dark, waiting for a signal that might never come.
Elizabeth was the first to speak.
"You're loyal to him."
Sarah looked at her. Her eyes were unreadable in the dim light. "He owns me," she said. "That's not loyalty."
"Isn't it?" Elizabeth's voice was quiet, almost curious. "You're standing here, ready to do whatever he asks. You don't fight. You don't plan escape. You just—" She paused, searching for the word. "—accept."
Sarah's hand tightened on the chain of her plug. The hair was soft between her fingers, a ghost of her former self.
"Fighting costs more than it gives," she said. "I learned that." She paused, her eyes dropping to the concrete floor. "There's a kind of peace in giving up. In letting go of the idea that you could have been something else."
Elizabeth watched her for a long moment, then crossed to stand beside her, her shoulder brushing Sarah's. They stood together, looking at the frame, the hooks, the chains—the architecture of Caleb's ambition.
"He's going to take her sister," Elizabeth said quietly. "And you're going to help him."
"Yes."
"And if she fights—if Ava tries to stop it—you'll help him hold her down."
Sarah's breath was slow and steady. The chain of her plug was warm now from her touch, the hair soft and familiar.
"Yes," she said again.
Elizabeth didn't respond. She just stood there, her hand finding Sarah's, their fingers interlacing in the dim light. A strange solidarity. Two women who had surrendered to the same architect, standing together in the basement, waiting for the trap to spring.
Above them, the house was quiet. The hum of the bulb filled the silence. And somewhere in the guest room, Maggie was unpacking her bag, unaware of the frame waiting for her below.
Elizabeth's footsteps were soft on the stairs, her hand trailing along the wall as she climbed. The basement door sighed open, and the warm light of the hallway washed over her as she stepped through, pulling it closed behind her with a click that seemed louder than it should have been.
Ava was still in the kitchen.
She stood at the counter, her hands braced on the edge, her back to the hallway. Her shoulders were tight—too tight, the kind of tension that came from holding something in rather than holding something up. The afternoon light caught the red of her hair, the loose strands that had escaped her messy bun, and for a moment, she looked exactly like what she was pretending to be: a grieving widow, standing alone in her kitchen, trying to hold herself together.
But Elizabeth had spent twenty years reading bodies. And she could see it now—the crack Caleb had described. It was in the way Ava's fingers curled against the granite, the knuckles white, the nails pressing into her palms. It was in the way her breath came too carefully, too measured, as if she was counting each inhale to keep herself from falling apart.
Elizabeth didn't approach. She just stood in the doorway, watching, her face carefully neutral. She let the silence stretch, let Ava feel the weight of being seen.
Ava's head turned. Just a fraction, just enough for Elizabeth to catch the edge of her profile—the high cheekbone, the full lips pressed into a thin line, the eyes that were red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears.
"Elizabeth." Her voice was hoarse. "I didn't hear you come up."
"I know." Elizabeth's voice was soft, careful. "You were somewhere else."
Ava's jaw tightened. She didn't answer. Her hands were still gripping the counter, her knuckles white, and Elizabeth could see the tremor running through her arms—fine, subtle, the kind of shake that came from holding back something too big to contain.
Elizabeth crossed the kitchen slowly, her footsteps deliberate, unhurried. She stopped at the counter beside Ava, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, the tension vibrating through her frame. She didn't touch her. She just stood there, her hands resting on the granite, her eyes fixed on the window above the sink.
"She's unpacking," Elizabeth said quietly. "Maggie. She's in the guest room, putting her things away."
Ava's breath caught. A small sound, barely audible, but Elizabeth heard it. She heard the way it cracked, the way it broke in the middle.
"I know," Ava whispered.
"She loves you." Elizabeth's voice was still soft, still measured. "She took a month off work to be here for you. To help you grieve." She paused. "She thinks you're the same person she's always known."
Ava's hands tightened on the counter. A soft, broken sound escaped her throat—not a sob, not quite, but something between. The sound of a woman standing at the edge of a decision she didn't want to make.
"Elizabeth." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know what to do."
Elizabeth turned to look at her. Her brown eyes were soft, but there was something steady in them, something that had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"Yes, you do," she said quietly. "You've known all day. You just haven't said it out loud yet."
Ava's breath came faster. Her fingers were trembling against the granite, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding it together. And then she turned, her eyes finding Elizabeth's, and Elizabeth saw it—the crack, widening, the moment before the break.
"I need to talk to her," Ava said. "Alone."
Elizabeth held her gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, slowly.
"Okay."
She turned and walked toward the hallway, toward the stairs, toward where Caleb was waiting. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She had seen what she needed to see.
---
Caleb was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his bare feet on the hardwood, his grey eyes tracking Elizabeth as she descended. He didn't speak. He just watched her, reading her face the way she had read Ava's.
Elizabeth stopped in front of him, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, the stillness of his breathing.
"She's going to do it," Elizabeth said quietly. "She's going to tell her."
Caleb's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered—something passing through them, too fast to name. Grief, maybe. Or disappointment. Or the cold recognition of a plan about to fracture.
"How long?"
"Now. She's going to her now." Elizabeth paused. "She asked to speak to her alone."
Caleb was silent for a long moment. Then he turned, his eyes finding the basement door, the dim light spilling from its crack.
"Sarah." His voice was low, sharp, carrying through the quiet. "I need you."
Footsteps on the stairs. Soft, bare, unhurried. Sarah emerged from the basement, her body still marked by the flogger, the collar still around her throat, the plug still between her legs. She looked at Caleb, her eyes clear and steady, waiting.
"Maggie's a cop," Caleb said. "She'll have a gun in her bag. Find it."
Sarah didn't hesitate. She turned and moved through the hallway, her bare feet silent on the wood, her body low and fluid as she disappeared toward the front of the house where Maggie's bag sat in the guest room.
Caleb turned back to Elizabeth. His grey eyes were flat, cold, the mask firmly in place.
"We lock the door," he said. "We wait for Sarah to bring the gun. And then we stand behind that door until we hear what we need to hear."
Elizabeth met his gaze. "And if she tells her everything?"
"Then we move."
They climbed the stairs together, Caleb's bare feet silent, Elizabeth's shoes soft against the wood. At the top, they turned toward the guest room, where Maggie's voice drifted through the partially open door—warm, concerned, the voice of a sister trying to comfort.
Caleb's hand found the door. He pulled it closed, slowly, the latch clicking into place with a sound that seemed to echo through the quiet house.
The lock slid home.
Sarah appeared at the end of the hallway, Maggie's service pistol in her hand, held loosely at her side. She crossed to them, her movements silent, her eyes meeting Caleb's.
"Found it," she whispered. "Loaded."
Caleb took the gun from her, his fingers closing around the cold metal. He checked the chamber, the safety, then handed it back.
"You hold it," he said. "I'll handle the door."
Sarah nodded, the gun steady in her hand. She stepped back, positioning herself against the wall beside the doorframe, her body angled, ready.
Elizabeth took her place on the other side, her back pressed to the wall, her eyes fixed on the door.
And they waited.
---
Inside the guest room, Maggie was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her brown eyes soft with concern. She had changed out of her uniform into jeans and a simple blouse, her shoulder-length brown hair loose around her face. She looked younger like this, softer, the cop's edge hidden beneath the sister's warmth.
"Ava." Her voice was gentle. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
Ava stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, her red hair falling loose around her face. She had taken out the messy bun, let the strands fall where they would, and she looked fragile in a way she hadn't allowed herself to look all day.
"I haven't," she admitted. Her voice was hoarse, thin. "Not really."
Maggie's face softened with sympathy. She patted the bed beside her. "Come sit. Tell me what's going on."
Ava crossed the room slowly, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She sat beside her sister, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and for a long moment, she just stared at her hands, her fingers twisting together in her lap.
"I don't know where to start," she whispered.
Maggie's hand found hers, warm and solid. "Start at the beginning. Or start at the hardest part. Doesn't matter. I'm here."
Ava's breath shook. Her fingers tightened around Maggie's, gripping them like a lifeline.
"It's not—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "It's not just grief, Maggie. It's not just Marc."
Maggie's brow furrowed. She studied her sister's face, the shadows under her eyes, the tremor in her lips. Something shifted in her expression—a flicker of concern, of suspicion, of the cop's instinct that had kept her alive through twelve years on the force.
"What do you mean?"
Ava's eyes were wet, bright with tears that hadn't fallen yet. She was staring at her hands, at the way Maggie's fingers were wrapped around hers, and she looked like a woman standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to jump.
"Caleb," she whispered. And the name broke on her lips. "It's Caleb."
Maggie's hand tightened on hers. "What about him? Ava, what did he do?"
Ava shook her head. A tear slipped down her cheek, trailing through the fine lines at the corner of her mouth. She didn't wipe it away.
"He didn't do anything I didn't let him do," she said. Her voice was barely audible, a confession spoken to the carpet, to her own clasped hands. "That's the worst part. That's what I can't—" She broke off, a sob catching in her throat.
Maggie's face had gone still. The cop was awake now, her eyes sharp, her body angled toward her sister, reading every tremor, every hesitation.
"Ava. Tell me what happened."
Ava took a shaky breath. Her hands were trembling, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding back the flood.
"I'm his," she said. The words came out raw, broken, scraped from somewhere deep inside her. "I'm Caleb's. His slave. His—" She choked on the word. "His slut."
Maggie stared at her. For a long moment, she didn't move, didn't speak. Her face was unreadable, frozen between disbelief and the beginning of something darker.
"What?"
"I'm his." Ava's voice cracked. "He owns me, Maggie. He's been—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "Since Marc left. The day after Marc left for Frankfurt, he came into my room. He tied me up. He blindfolded me. And I—" She pressed her hand to her mouth, a sob muffled against her palm. "I let him. I wanted him to."
Maggie's hand slipped from hers. She pulled back, just slightly, her eyes searching Ava's face for any sign of a joke, a trick, a misunderstanding.
"Ava, that's—that's rape. That's—"
"No." Ava shook her head violently, her hair swinging around her face. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It's not. I wanted it. I still want it." Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. "God, Maggie, I still want him. Even now. Even sitting here, telling you this, I can feel him inside me. I can feel his hands on my throat, his mouth on my—"
She couldn't finish. The words dissolved into weeping, raw and ugly, the kind of crying that came from somewhere too deep to control.
Maggie's hand found her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. Her face was pale, her jaw tight, but her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Start from the beginning," she said. "Tell me everything."
And Ava did.
She told her about the first night—the blindfold, the ropes, the way she had thought it was Marc until she heard Caleb's voice. She told her about the collar, the piercings, the flogger. She told her about the mornings on her knees, her mouth on his cock, waking him with her tongue. She told her about the 69, the way he had made her beg, the way he had denied her until she was desperate. She told her about Sarah—the neighbor he had taken, the woman she had flogged at his command. She told her about Elizabeth, the dominatrix who was now his girlfriend, who slept in his bed while Ava slept on the floor.
She told her everything.
And as she spoke, her voice grew steadier, the tears still falling but her words finding shape. She described the way his hands felt on her skin, the way his voice dropped when he gave an order, the way her body responded to him before her mind could catch up. She described the hunger—the constant, aching hunger that had settled into her bones, that made her wake before dawn craving his taste, that made her count the minutes until he touched her again.
Maggie listened. Her hand never stopped moving on Ava's back, slow and steady, a grounding rhythm. Her face was pale, her eyes bright with unshed tears of her own, but she didn't interrupt. She let her sister speak.
When Ava finally fell silent, her voice hoarse, her face wet, her body limp with exhaustion, Maggie sat still for a long moment. The clock on the nightstand ticked. The late afternoon light slanted through the curtains, casting long shadows across the carpet.
"Ava." Maggie's voice was quiet, measured. "Look at me."
Ava lifted her head. Her eyes were red, swollen, the mascara streaked down her cheeks. She looked broken. She looked free.
"Do you want to leave?" Maggie asked.
Ava's breath caught. Her lips parted, and for a moment, something flickered in her eyes—a hope, a desperation, a woman reaching for a lifeline.
And then it died.
"No," she whispered. And the word came out like a wound. "I don't."
Maggie's hand stilled on her back. Her face went through a series of emotions too fast to track—disbelief, horror, grief, a flare of anger that died almost as quickly as it came.
"You're telling me," she said slowly, "that my nineteen-year-old stepnephew has turned you into his sex slave. That you've been collared, pierced, flogged, and shared with other women. That you sleep on the floor while his girlfriend sleeps in your bed." She paused. "And you don't want to leave."
Ava's tears were falling again, silent this time, tracking through the mess on her cheeks. "I know how it sounds."
"It sounds insane."
"It is insane." Ava's voice cracked. "I know it is. I know that. But Maggie—" She reached for her sister's hands, gripping them with desperate strength. "You don't understand what he does to me. What he makes me feel. When he looks at me, when he tells me to kneel, when he puts his hands on me—I've never felt like that. I've never felt so—" She searched for the word. "—seen."
Maggie stared at her. Her jaw was tight, her eyes wet, her whole body rigid with the effort of holding herself together.
"He's using you, Ava."
"I know."
"He's manipulating you. Breaking you down until you can't think for yourself."
"I know."
"He's going to do the same thing to me." Maggie's voice sharpened. "Isn't he? That's why I'm here. That's why you invited me."
Ava's face crumpled. A sob tore from her throat, raw and broken.
"Yes," she wept. "Yes. That's why you're here. He wants you too. He's been planning it since before Marc died. And I—" She pressed her hands to her face, her shoulders shaking. "I helped him. I called you. I told you to come. I lured you here, Maggie. I lured you into a trap."
Maggie pulled her hands away, slowly, gently. She stood up, crossing to the window, her back to her sister. Her shoulders were tight, her hands clenched at her sides.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Ava's weeping.
Then Maggie turned. Her face was pale, her eyes red, but her voice was steady when she spoke.
"What's the plan?"
Ava looked up at her, her face streaked with tears, her eyes desperate and lost. "What?"
"The plan. For me. What is it?"
Ava's breath hitched. She wiped at her face, smearing the mascara, trying to pull herself together.
"There's a frame. In the basement. With chains and ropes. He's going to—" She stopped, a sob catching in her throat. "He's going to put you in it. Keep you there until you submit. Like he did with me. Like he did with Sarah."
Maggie's jaw tightened. She turned back to the window, her hands braced on the sill, her gaze fixed on the quiet street outside.
"And you were going to help him."
"Yes." The word came out broken. "I was. I am." Ava's voice cracked. "But I can't. Maggie, I can't. I can't do it. I can't watch him take you the way he took me." She was sobbing now, her words barely intelligible. "I love him. God help me, I love him. But I love you too. And I can't—I can't choose."
Maggie turned from the window. She crossed to her sister, sinking onto the bed beside her, pulling her into her arms. Ava collapsed against her, her face buried in Maggie's shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.
"I'm sorry," Ava wept. "I'm so sorry. I should have warned you. I should have told you to stay away. But I couldn't—I couldn't disobey him. I can't disobey him. Every time I think about crossing him, about betraying him, my body—" She choked. "My body won't let me. I want him too much."
Maggie held her. Her hand stroked her hair, slow and steady, the way she had done when they were children, when Ava had cried over boys and broken hearts and dreams that hadn't come true.
"It's okay," Maggie whispered. "It's okay. I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."
But her eyes were fixed on the door. On the closed, locked door. On the silence beyond it.
Because she knew—the cop in her knew—that they weren't alone. That someone was listening. That the trap had already sprung, and she was standing in the middle of it.
The only question was whether her sister would stand with her, or against her.
And the look in Ava's eyes—the desperate, hungry, broken look—told her she already knew the answer.