Chapter 4

I sat in the dark, the damp chill of the wine cellar seeping into my bones, and I felt nothing. No fear, no anger, just a profound and unsettling calm. The part of me that craved their approval had finally died.

Hours later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number. I opened it.

"Gabrielle, it' s Dr. Fuller. I just called your parents. I told them I bought you the dress as a gift. I hope that clears things up. Are you alright?"

Before I could reply, the intercom on the cellar wall crackled to life. It was my mother' s voice, thin and reedy.

"Gabrielle? Are you there?"

I didn' t answer.

"Dr. Fuller called," she continued, her tone laced with annoyance. "Why didn' t you just tell us he bought you the dress? You' ve caused such a scene."

There was no apology. No remorse for the accusation, for the humiliation, for locking me in a cellar.

"You' ve really upset Molly," my mother sighed. "She feels so guilty now that she can' t even eat. Your father and I have decided to take her to Aspen for a few weeks to cheer her up. We' re leaving tonight."

She paused, as if expecting a response. When I gave her none, she just clicked off.

That was it. The final confirmation. They were punishing me for their own cruelty by rewarding my tormentor.

I leaned my head back against the cold stone wall and laughed. It was a hollow, empty sound that echoed off the expensive bottles of wine surrounding me.

They let me out the next morning, just before they left for the airport. They didn' t speak to me. They just left a tray of food on the floor outside the cellar door, as if for an animal.

For the next two weeks, the sprawling ranch was empty. And I began to erase myself.

I went into my father' s study and found the leather-bound notebooks where I had meticulously recorded his preferences-the exact temperature he liked his coffee, the brand of cigars he favored, the way he liked his steak cooked. I took them out to the barbecue pit and burned them, watching the ashes of my servitude float away on the Texas wind.

I went to Andrew' s sound-proofed music room. For years, I had spent hours online, scouring obscure forums to find rare, high-fidelity classical music files to add to his precious collection. It was the one thing we used to share. I logged into his system and deleted every single file I had ever given him.

I went to my parents' bedroom and gathered the custom herbal pillows I made for them every month. They both suffered from insomnia, and my blend of lavender, chamomile, and valerian root was the only thing that helped them sleep. I took them to the trash compactor and crushed them.

I packed my few meager belongings into a single backpack: a couple of changes of clothes, my physics textbooks, and the acceptance letter from MIT that Dr. Fuller had emailed me.

Finally, I compiled a file. It contained every nasty text message from Molly, a log of every time they' d denied me basic necessities, and a detailed account of the years of psychological abuse. I gave the file to Dr. Fuller.

"Give this to them after I' m gone," I told him. "Not because I want an apology. But because I want them to know that I know."

He nodded, his eyes sad but proud. "Your flight is booked. I' ll see you in Boston."