Chapter 3
1064 Words
✨What Quiet Girls Steal.✨
Flora Pov
Flora did not sleep that night.
She lay on her back, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the ceiling above her bed, counting the seconds between sounds. The house had its own language at night—pipes clicking, wood settling, distant footsteps that might have been memory or might have been real.
Arrangements.
The word would not let her rest.
She rose before dawn, careful not to wake the floorboards. She dressed plainly—soft clothes, neutral colors—nothing that would draw attention. She folded her blanket tight, smoothed the pillow, and slid her book back beneath the mattress where it belonged.
Nothing out of place. Nothing missing.
Flora had learned that disappearance was safest when it looked like routine.
In the bathroom, she studied her reflection. Her face was pale, eyes ringed with shadow. She practiced her expression—blank, agreeable, calm. The one that never invited questions.
Downstairs, the house was quiet.
She poured herself a glass of water and drank it standing, then rinsed the cup and returned it to the cabinet exactly where it belonged. Her hands moved without thought. Years of obedience had made her efficient.
That was when Cambilly appeared in the doorway.
Her sister’s cheek was already swelling, mottled with red and purple. She moved stiffly, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Cambilly took one look at Flora’s face and understood that something had changed.
“You didn’t sleep,” Cambilly said.
Flora shook her head.
Cambilly crossed the kitchen and leaned against the counter, arms folded protectively across her chest. “He didn’t come near you after?”
“No.”
Cambilly exhaled slowly. “Good.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the quiet thick between them.
“Mama talked to you,” Cambilly said. It wasn’t a question.
Flora hesitated.
That was all the answer Cambilly needed.
“What did he say to you?” Cambilly asked, her voice low. Controlled.
Flora swallowed. “He didn’t.”
Cambilly’s mouth tightened. “Then what?”
Flora stared at the table. The wood grain again. Always the table. “She said he’s making arrangements.”
Cambilly went very still.
“For who?” she asked.
Flora didn’t answer right away.
Cambilly laughed once—sharp, disbelieving.
“No. No, he wouldn’t. Not you.”
Flora lifted her eyes.
The truth settled like dust.
“Oh,” Cambilly whispered. “Oh, Flora.”
She turned away abruptly, pacing the small kitchen like a caged animal. “He doesn’t get to do that,” she said. “You’re not something he trades.”
Flora wrapped her arms around herself.
“Mama said nothing’s decided.”
“That’s what she says when she’s scared,” Cambilly snapped. Then softer, “That’s what she says when it already is.”
Flora flinched.
Cambilly stopped pacing and faced her. “You can’t stay.”
Flora nodded. She had known that the moment the word was spoken. “I won’t.”
The simplicity of her answer startled them both.
Cambilly searched her face. “You’re serious.”
Flora nodded again. “I’ll leave.”
“When?”
Flora hesitated. “Soon.”
Cambilly grabbed a chair and sat, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Okay,” she said. “Then we plan. Together.”
Flora’s chest tightened. She shook her head.
“No,” she said quietly.
Cambilly frowned. “What do you mean, no?”
Flora forced herself to meet her sister’s eyes. “You can’t come.”
The words hurt to say. They tasted wrong.
Cambilly scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If you leave,” Flora continued, “he’ll notice. He’ll come after us. Mama too.”
Cambilly opened her mouth to argue, then stopped.
Flora pressed on, her voice trembling but steady. “If it’s just me, he’ll think I ran because I was weak. Afraid. He won’t chase weakness.”
Cambilly stared at her.
“He’ll punish me instead,” Cambilly said slowly.
Flora nodded. Tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t let them fall. “You already know how to survive him. I don’t—not like that.”
Silence stretched between them.
Cambilly leaned back, rubbing a hand over her face. “You’ve been thinking about this longer than I realized.”
Flora nodded again. “I always think. I just don’t say it.”
Cambilly laughed softly, without humor. “Jesus, Flora.”
Footsteps sounded from down the hall.
Both girls froze.
Trump’s voice followed—sharp, impatient.
“Margery.”
Cambilly stood instantly. “Go,” she whispered.
“Act normal.”
Flora obeyed.
At breakfast, Flora served without being asked. She poured Trump’s drink before he reached for it. She kept her eyes lowered. She nodded when spoken to. She smiled faintly at the right moments.
Trump noticed.
He always did.
He studied her over the rim of his glass, something calculating in his gaze. “You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“Yes,” Flora replied softly.
“That’s good,” he said. “I like quiet.”
She nodded again.
Cambilly burned beside her, silent.
Later, Flora slipped back to her room. She knelt and lifted the loose floorboard beneath her dresser—the one only she knew about. Inside were the things she’d gathered over time: a small roll of cash, her birth papers folded thin, a necklace she could sell if she had to.
Not much.
But enough.
She tucked them into a plain bag and hid it beneath a stack of old clothes.
Down the hall, Cambilly argued loudly with Floyd—on purpose. Creating noise. Drawing attention.
Buying time.
That night, Margery found Flora sitting on her bed.
“You’re planning something,” Margery said.
Flora didn’t deny it.
Margery sat beside her, smoothing the blanket. “I can’t go with you.”
“I know,” Flora whispered.
Margery’s eyes filled. “I wish I were braver.”
“You are,” Flora said. “You stayed.”
Margery pressed a kiss to her hair. “Then go,” she whispered. “Before he decides.”
Flora nodded.
In the dark, she held her breath and waited.
Soon.
Very soon.
And for the first time in her life, obedience was no longer what kept her alive.
It was what taught her how to leave.
- Writer
