Her blue eyes turn foggy for a moment, but there aren’t any tears there. Just memories. “I worked for him for years, taking his abuse, cleaning up after his depravity. In some ways it was worse, more degrading than s*x work.”
I gnaw at my bottom lip. “Why didn’t you run?”
“Run?” she repeats, as though the notion never even occurred to her. “Run where? I was a woman in her fifties with no education and no job history. There was nowhere to run. They’d cut off my limbs if they caught me. I had no choice but to stay. To suffer.”
She’s strong enough to sit there and tell me her story with dry eyes. But I’m not strong enough to hear it without crying. A tear slips down my cheek and she smiles at me. It’s an amused smile, of all things.
“Oh, honey, forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“N
