Free Furious by T. R. Ragan Page B

and she hurriedly finished with Jean’s braid. “Come on,” Miranda said. “Time to go. Mother wants us.”
    “I hate her,” Jean said, her voice eerily calm for a ten-year-old.
    Miranda’s eyes rounded and her arm jerked outward, ready to slap Jean across the face, knock some sense into the little girl, but she stopped midair. She refused to let these monsters turn her into one of them.
    Jean flinched.
    “I’m sorry.” Miranda’s heart lurched. “I’ll never hit you—I promise.”
    “I want to go home,” Jean said, tearful now. “I want to see my mom and dad.”
    “Don’t ever say that.” She grabbed hold of Jean’s small shoulders and then dropped to one knee so they were eye to eye. “Listen to me, Jean, and listen closely. I’m going to find a way to get you out of here. Do you hear me?”
    Jean’s body shook. “When can we leave?”
    “Soon. But we need to be smart. I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s not easy for any of us. But you need to keep quiet. Don’t ever talk about going home again.”
    “I don’t want to stay here anymore.”
    Miranda sighed. “If you tell Mother you want to go home, she will beat you, Jean. She won’t just send you to your room. She’ll drag you to the barn and make one of the boys use a whip or a belt to hit you until you stop talking about home. You have to do what she says until I can find a way out of here. Do you understand?”
    Finally the girl nodded.
    Thank God. Miranda wiped Jean’s tears away. She wanted to tell Jean that if she was ever taken to a man’s house and asked to do things she didn’t want to do, to fight him with everything she had and then run as fast as she could, but instead she wrapped her arms around her and held her close. “I’m going to get you out of here,” she whispered. “I promise.”
    Together they walked into the main room.
    As instructed, Jean sat on the couch with the younger girls and Miranda took a seat next to Felicity. She saw Adele across the way, sitting quietly with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast, her shoulders drawn inward. Goose bumps sprouted on Miranda’s arms as she took it all in. Adele’s eyes were shadowed in darkness, her arms covered with bruises. She looked as if she were on the brink of death, and it frightened her.
    Miranda pulled her gaze from Adele and looked at Mother, who had taken some time to do her hair and makeup. Her faded brown strands had been swept to the back of her head, then rolled and pinned. Lots of stray flyaway hairs stuck out every which way, but no one dared point that out or look at her for too long. With her hair pulled back away from her face, it was plain to see that Mother might have been considered pretty in her younger days. Nobody knew how old she was. Jasper once guessed her age to be thirty-five, but there was no way—forty-five minimum, Miranda figured. She did have high cheekbones, and every once in a while, like now, there was a brightness to her light-colored eyes that made her look younger. She’d exchanged her tattered blue jeans and faded gray T-shirt for a flowery print dress and a blue sweater with sleeves that stopped just above her elbows. If she’d resisted applying the powder-blue eye shadow and false lashes, she might look less like the street hookers Miranda used to see hanging out on Watt Avenue and more like one of the school moms at the market.
    “I’ve got a surprise,” Mother said, her gaze sweeping over each and every one of them. “We have a very important guest today. He’s driven a long way, so I need you all to be on your best behavior. Mr. Smith has only a few minutes to make a decision before he leaves for San Francisco. A week from now, the girl who is chosen will get to spend time with Mr. Smith at a luxury hotel in San Francisco. You will be treated like a princess. Pampered and served whatever your heart desires. But . . . if you misbehave, even so much as frown, there will be consequences. Severe