Chapter 8

The late afternoon sun cast long, orange shadows across the Knox family kitchen.

Ainsley sat at the chipped Formica table, humming a pop song off the radio. She was carefully applying a coat of bright, cherry-red polish to her fingernails, blowing on them gently.

The front door opened with a heavy creak.

Kristopher limped into the hallway. His face was a sickly, pale gray, and the dark bags under his eyes made him look like he hadn't slept in a week. His right leg dragged stiffly behind him.

Ainsley looked up, the tiny brush freezing over her pinky nail.

She took in his disheveled hair, the mud caked on his expensive trousers, and the way he leaned heavily against the wall. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together in deep disgust.

"Look at you," Ainsley scoffed, waving her wet nails in the air. "Did you go drinking behind the bleachers again? You're tracking mud all over my clean floor."

Kristopher swallowed hard. He avoided her eyes, staring fixedly at the scuff marks on the linoleum.

"I... I stayed late to fix the old tractor behind the gym," Kristopher stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "I slipped off the metal pedal. Banged my knee pretty bad."

Ainsley rolled her eyes, completely buying the pathetic, logical lie. She didn't ask if he needed ice. She didn't ask if he needed a doctor.

"Whatever," Ainsley sighed, returning her attention to her nails. "Just don't expect me to make dinner. Alissa hasn't done a single chore all day. The lazy bitch is probably faking sick again in her room."

At the sound of Alissa's name, Kristopher's entire body violently flinched.

His breath hitched, and a flash of pure, unadulterated terror widened his eyes. He gripped the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Don't... don't bother her," Kristopher blurted out, his voice cracking.

Ainsley stopped painting. She looked at her husband like he had just grown a second head.

"Excuse me?" she snapped. "Since when do you care if she rests?"

Kristopher realized his mistake. He licked his dry lips, trying to backtrack. "I just... I have a headache. I don't want to hear you two yelling. Just let her sleep."

Without waiting for a response, Kristopher turned and practically dragged himself up the stairs, fleeing the conversation.

At the end of the dark hallway, standing perfectly still in the shadows, Alissa watched him go.

She had heard every word. The tape was working. The fear was absolute.

Alissa turned and slipped quietly back into her bedroom, locking the wooden door behind her with a soft click.

She peeled off her oversized sweater, leaving her in just a thin, faded tank top and shorts.

She walked over to the cracked full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

She stared at her reflection. Her collarbones jutted out sharply. Her arms were thin, lacking any real muscle definition. The dark purple bruise on her thigh from Ainsley's pinch was turning a sickly yellow.

The fight last night had been a victory, but a costly one. Her muscles ached with a deep, throbbing soreness. She had pushed this fragile body far past its breaking point.

Tricks and leverage would only get her so far. If she faced someone who knew how to fight, she would be crushed. She needed physical strength.

Alissa stepped away from the mirror and stood in the center of the room.

She couldn't do push-ups or heavy cardio. This malnourished body would suffer from rhabdomyolysis or a heart attack. She had to rebuild from the foundation up.

She began with isometric exercises.

She stood next to the bed and lowered herself into a quarter squat. Just a few inches.

She held the position. She focused her mind entirely on her quadriceps, forcing the muscle fibers to contract and hold the tension without moving.

Ten seconds passed. Her legs began to shake violently.

A sharp, tearing pain radiated through her thighs. Sweat beaded on her forehead, sliding down her pale cheeks and dripping onto the dusty floorboards.

She gritted her teeth, breathing in a harsh, rhythmic hiss through her nose.

She held it for thirty seconds before slowly standing up. Her legs felt like jelly, but her eyes burned with a fierce, fanatical light.

She moved to the wall, pressing her palms flat against the wood, and pushed. She didn't move the wall, but she forced her chest and triceps to engage, holding maximum tension for twenty seconds.

After thirty minutes of agonizing, silent work, Alissa collapsed onto the edge of her bed, her chest heaving.

She reached into her bra and pulled out the crumpled seventeen dollars.

She stared at the pathetic amount of cash. Muscle required protein. Protein required money.

She looked out her bedroom window. Below, in the overgrown backyard, was a small, neglected vegetable garden.

The original Alissa had painstakingly cultivated a few hidden rows of late-season sweet corn at the very edge of the property months ago-her only sanctuary away from Ainsley's demands. The stunted stalks were finally bearing fruit. They were a pathetic yield, but right now, they were food, and they were currency.

Alissa tucked the money away and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from her neck.

Tomorrow, she was taking control of the household's resources. And she knew exactly who would try to stop her.