Chapter 5 - Cold Truths
Martha brought over a plate of hot scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and a thick bowl of chicken noodle soup without us having to ask. She slid a mug of black coffee in front of me and dropped a heavy ceramic mug of hot cocoa topped with marshmallows in front of Lena.
“On the house,” Martha said softly, giving Lena a gentle pat on her shoulder. “Poor lamb. What did he do to you, honey?”
Lena hesitated, watching the steam rise from the cocoa. Slowly, she pushed her sleeves all the way up past her elbows.
The sight made Martha draw in a sharp, pained breath.
It wasn't just fingerprints. There were old, faded yellow marks, deep purple hematomas, and long, thin scratches across both arms. Near her left shoulder was a distinct circular burn scar—the exact diameter of a car cigarette lighter.
“When Mom got real sick in October,” Lena whispered, her voice steadying as the hot food warmed her chest, “he stopped giving her the medicine. He told her she was costing him too much money. When she couldn't get out of bed, he took her bank cards.”
She paused, swallowing hard, her small fingers clutching the ceramic mug.
“Mom had a life insurance policy. Five hundred thousand dollars. She told me before she died that the money was locked in a trust for my leg—so I could get new prosthetics as I grow up, and go to college. But Marcus found out he couldn't touch the money unless… unless he was named my legal guardian by the probate court.”
I leaned in closer. “And you refused to sign the guardian consent forms?”
“Mom made me memorize her lawyer’s phone number in Scranton,” Lena said, a flicker of fierce defiance lighting up her dark eyes. “She told me: ‘Never sign anything Marcus gives you. No matter what he does.’ So he locked me in the storm cellar three days ago. He said I had until Monday to change my mind or I’d freeze to death down there.”
“How did you get out?” I asked.
“The coal chute,” she said simply, gesturing toward her right leg. The carbon-fiber prosthetic was scratched and caked in black dust. “I took my leg off, squeezed through the little coal door into the woodpile outside, and put my leg back on in the snow. Then I walked.”
Two miles. A nine-year-old child had hiked two miles through a Category 3 winter storm on a carbon-fiber foot, in below-freezing temperatures, running for her life.
“The lawyer’s name is Harris,” Lena added, pulling a crumpled, frozen slip of paper from her inside pocket. “I kept it in my sock so he couldn't find it.”
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I took the paper carefully. The ink was smeared, but the name and phone number were legible.
Just then, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered twice, buzzed violently, and went pitch black.
