not include the filter of Jake Monday, it was easier to see Frank’s devotion to Macy, his duty to his job, and his true heart. She could appreciate these tangible attributes.
Chapter Seven
Liar, Liar
G iselle sat with her hands palms down on a cold stainless steel table. She blinked and squinted at the bright light above. The rest of the room was cast in darkness. Men moved in the shadows.
She was drugged. Of that, she was positive.
She remembered who she was.
She remembered everything, really.
Part of her reluctance to speak, to acknowledge the prying voices, was the shock and horror of these memories. The drugs helped.
The short man walked toward what she thought was a door. She could not be sure.
He had been commanding her to speak. He was getting frustrated.
Giselle did not like him. He smelled of mint chewing gum and coffee grounds.
She breathed in and then out, reminding herself why she could not trust this man.
She could not trust anyone in this room. In point of fact, she could not even trust herself. She had proven this over the past year. She was particularly self-destructive.
The biggest struggle was not to allow her increasingly lucid thoughts to travel to her eyes. They could not know. She hoped they would give up soon.
Or bring her something to eat.
She had noted that her skin was taut at her wrists. Her stomach felt like a leaden thing, detached from her body, but annoyingly needy, like a Third World country begging for charity to run its grubby, corrupted government. Her mind, her body, her family: they had all abandoned her. Even her soul had fled in her time of need.
Giselle fought back the urge to cry. She was surrounded, but lonely. Bone-achingly lonely.
“How long have you known you were a double agent?” the taller man asked. His voice had no urgency to it. It was as if he did not expect her to respond.
I am not falling for that trick, no sir, she thought.
The worst part of crying was that she knew from experience that she would smile. Not a smile, really, but a grimace. That would be the end of her.
Would that be so bad? she wondered. The pain in her body and in her soul cried out for relief. None would come.
Something held her back from that particular form of suicide. Perhaps it was the memory of Jake.
Her brother. Could that be true? Why had her father kept that from her all these years? It demonstrated an unusual capacity for emotional attachment. It was also a bitter pill to swallow.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She winced.
The image of a winged dragon with three heads formed in her mind. A dragon breathed fire at a helmed warrior with medieval armor. The knight held a shield emblazed with a cross in one hand and in the other a gleaming sword that refracted the light from the dragon’s fire.
The image allowed her to focus, to float above herself.
She knew now why it gave her such comfort. It was her family’s crest. Her mother’s family. A legacy of power and corruption. She was certain that Clarence had known all along. Giselle was just as sure that Jake still did not know the whole truth. She hoped he never would.
The metallic click of a lock sounded beside her and brought her out of her trance. She did not open her eyes. Someone shuffled in. Giselle could feel the eyes in the room leave her for a moment.
“How is she responding?” a gruff voice asked.
“She is still unresponsive,” the short man said.
A hesitation. The tension in the air was thick.
“I do not see any visible signs of interrogation, men. Are we afraid to hit a woman?”
“Dr. Forsythe said that physical contact would only drive the memories and consciousness deeper. It would be counter-productive,” the taller man explained.
“Poor excuse.”
Giselle wanted desperately to open her eyes. She knew that voice. She had heard it once. She wanted to hear the voice say the word. The word that meant it was all right to hide within herself.
“Dr.
Chapter Seven
Liar, Liar
G iselle sat with her hands palms down on a cold stainless steel table. She blinked and squinted at the bright light above. The rest of the room was cast in darkness. Men moved in the shadows.
She was drugged. Of that, she was positive.
She remembered who she was.
She remembered everything, really.
Part of her reluctance to speak, to acknowledge the prying voices, was the shock and horror of these memories. The drugs helped.
The short man walked toward what she thought was a door. She could not be sure.
He had been commanding her to speak. He was getting frustrated.
Giselle did not like him. He smelled of mint chewing gum and coffee grounds.
She breathed in and then out, reminding herself why she could not trust this man.
She could not trust anyone in this room. In point of fact, she could not even trust herself. She had proven this over the past year. She was particularly self-destructive.
The biggest struggle was not to allow her increasingly lucid thoughts to travel to her eyes. They could not know. She hoped they would give up soon.
Or bring her something to eat.
She had noted that her skin was taut at her wrists. Her stomach felt like a leaden thing, detached from her body, but annoyingly needy, like a Third World country begging for charity to run its grubby, corrupted government. Her mind, her body, her family: they had all abandoned her. Even her soul had fled in her time of need.
Giselle fought back the urge to cry. She was surrounded, but lonely. Bone-achingly lonely.
“How long have you known you were a double agent?” the taller man asked. His voice had no urgency to it. It was as if he did not expect her to respond.
I am not falling for that trick, no sir, she thought.
The worst part of crying was that she knew from experience that she would smile. Not a smile, really, but a grimace. That would be the end of her.
Would that be so bad? she wondered. The pain in her body and in her soul cried out for relief. None would come.
Something held her back from that particular form of suicide. Perhaps it was the memory of Jake.
Her brother. Could that be true? Why had her father kept that from her all these years? It demonstrated an unusual capacity for emotional attachment. It was also a bitter pill to swallow.
She closed her eyes and swallowed. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She winced.
The image of a winged dragon with three heads formed in her mind. A dragon breathed fire at a helmed warrior with medieval armor. The knight held a shield emblazed with a cross in one hand and in the other a gleaming sword that refracted the light from the dragon’s fire.
The image allowed her to focus, to float above herself.
She knew now why it gave her such comfort. It was her family’s crest. Her mother’s family. A legacy of power and corruption. She was certain that Clarence had known all along. Giselle was just as sure that Jake still did not know the whole truth. She hoped he never would.
The metallic click of a lock sounded beside her and brought her out of her trance. She did not open her eyes. Someone shuffled in. Giselle could feel the eyes in the room leave her for a moment.
“How is she responding?” a gruff voice asked.
“She is still unresponsive,” the short man said.
A hesitation. The tension in the air was thick.
“I do not see any visible signs of interrogation, men. Are we afraid to hit a woman?”
“Dr. Forsythe said that physical contact would only drive the memories and consciousness deeper. It would be counter-productive,” the taller man explained.
“Poor excuse.”
Giselle wanted desperately to open her eyes. She knew that voice. She had heard it once. She wanted to hear the voice say the word. The word that meant it was all right to hide within herself.
“Dr.
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