Chapter Four

Sahara

Mother and I visit the neighbors twice more that week and another time the next. Were we not undercover, Mother would never allow such rude behavior. It's common courtesy not to visit a household more than once a week, let alone three times upon first arriving. Mother, however, writes off previous manners for the sake of my education and licensing. If I am to ever become a warden as she is, I will need these practice hours, even if they are completely nonsensical and a waste of everyone's time.

"Did you notice that surveillance camera?" I ask one day. We are walking side-by-side, back to our house. Nielle is at dance rehearsal, and I am fifty inquiries away from moving to Level Two. Most kids in my class will take the entire summer to get their hours in, but Mother is determined for me to achieve it in less than two months.

"What about it?" asks Mother. She pats at her plastered hair, as if the slight breeze could possibly unhinge the glue.

"It just seems peculiar that a poor woman can afford surveillance measures," I say. "Why would she need to video her front porch?"

"Mind your business, Sahara." Mother picks up her pace, already annoyed by my presence after twenty minutes.

I purse my lips together but say nothing more. The thing is, this whole undercover mission is nothing more than a glorified hoax. Two women in the area have called in reports of a Brute sighting, which is utterly impossible since a Brute has not been known to escape a ward in over a century. Mother and I are the department's way of 'stabilizing' the situation and reassuring the community that they are safe. In all reality, I'm just here to get my hours. Mother is here to get me out of the estate as quickly as possible, and my inquiries are doing nothing more than bothering women when they are trying to relax between work hours.

Still, I can't help but feel that same mystery and exhilaration that I felt upon first arriving to Weston. I know all of this is nothing more than practice for me, but I can't help but want it to be real. I've never done actual police work. Only hours of paperwork and online examinations of my abilities. The entire occupation sucks. A real mystery would make everything far more exciting, so if I want to pretend Ms. Mortera's surveillance camera is suspicious, I shall do just that. Except perhaps a bit more privately from now onward.

Paper work, faux documents, inquiry logs. That's how I spend the remainder of the afternoon. Mother cooks and cleans Nielle dances. Occasionally, I allow my imagination to wander toward my little sister. I envy her delicate movements and intricate routines. Oh to be a dancer rather than an investigator. Life would be much simpler.

"Sahara!" Mother's voice rises from her office.

I grab my current paperwork from the bed and carry it with me, as though to physically prove my dedication.

"Yes?" I ask, standing just before her door. I can see her through the glass, but I don't dare enter without her say. The office is her definition of a sanctuary.

"What is this?" she asks. It takes me a moment to realize that my file box is propped on her desk, and a slim pile of paperwork rests before her.

"Umm," I say, struggling for an answer.

"Come in," she finally says, and I do, if only slightly.

She's staring at my most recent log of inquiries, the one from this morning. Ms. Mortera's lies on top, and as I scan through the information, I automatically know to what she's referring.

"This needs to be redone," says Mother, holding the paperwork toward me with two manicured nails. "Simply unacceptable."

"Sorry Mother," I say, taking the paper from her. I try to make a quick escape, but she is faster, grabbing my wrist and snapping me back into place.

"Do you want your advisors to take you for a fool?" she asks. I can't tell if she's being rhetorical or not.

"I—"

"You can't barge into a test situation and start throwing around false accusations. If the advisory saw this, they'd send you back to Level One for some common sense," she says. "Listing a woman's safety precautions as suspicious? I swear, a daughter as stupid as you cannot belong to me."

"I'm sorry," I say again. I hate my voice. I hate the way it cracks and whimpers, like a pathetic dog that's been kicked. "I just thought—"

"You just thought you'd make a fool of yourself and me," she finishes. Then she sighs, "I know you want to do something important, but you're not smart enough. You are too rash and senseless. If you want a chance at being accepted into an actual program, you're going to have to start thinking. Understood?"

"Yes Mother," I whisper.

"Now go fix it," Her talon-like fingers slowly loosen. At the last moment, they tighten. "If I ever catch a mistake like this again, there will be consequences."

"Yes Mother."

For the rest of the day, I feel as though I am in the clear. Mother may be upset, but she doesn't seem angry, at least, not enough to do something about it. She reprimands me, but I nod and yes mother, and eventually I am excused to do more paperwork.

The whole time, I keep thinking you're okay, you're okay, she isn't that mad. Those thoughts go out the window when I catch her opening a bottle of wine in the kitchen. I immediately tuck myself under the covers, bringing the blankets to my chin and holding the papers to my nose. It's kind of like when children clap their hands over their eyes and hope if I can't see them, they can't see me. Mother can see me though, and she comes before long.

She's already drunk. Her lipstick is smeared and one of her eyes is having a difficult time staying open. She stands wordless at my door, grimacing and mumbling.

"Let me see the report," says Mother. She sticks out her hand and starts snapping her fingers. Her left eye is still doing that weird twitchy thing, and it's difficult to focus on anything else.

"I haven't finished it yet," I say, because I haven't. I haven't even started. After arguing with Mother about the surveillance camera, I didn't feel like restarting an hour's worth of information all because of one stupid sentence.

"Haven't finished?" she repeats, and it's a foreign concept to her. "I told you to finish hours ago."

"Yes Mother," I say.

"Stand up," she says, wobbling slightly in her heels.

I want to say something, but I know better than to defend myself. Instead, I stare at her, glancing between her swaying fingertips and the wine stain on her blouse.

"Explain yourself," says Mother. Her fingers clutch over my shoulders as she stumbles out of her shoes.

I rock back on my heels, trying to assess the situation. I can never quite tell what she wants me to say. Does she really want an explanation, or is she secretly asking for an apology?

"I'm sorry, Mother," I say finally. When she only narrows her eyes, I try again. "I promise it won't—"

That's about as far as I get before she hits me. It's harder than a drunken woman should be able to strike, but nothing with which I am unfamiliar. My cheek burns, and I am sure there is already a red mark from her palm. I don't cry though, I don't do anything. I just stand there, digging my fingers against my thighs and silently begging for her to leave.

"Don't ever disobey me again," says Mother. Her eyes are locked on mine, but they slowly lose their menacing edge. She looks more tired than angry, a sure sign that our fight is over.

"Yes Mother," I say, just in case.

She's not listening though. She's already halfway out of the room, abandoning her white heels and stumbling toward her bedroom. I wait until she falls, face-first, into her bed before turning to my own.

I crawl beneath the comforter and hitch the blankets over my face. I can feel Nielle staring at me from her room. She saw Mother hit me, she always does. There was a time when I considered talking to Nielle about Mother's abuse, but I decided against it. I knew that if I confided in Nielle, she would realize that the slaps, the kicks, the punches...they're all my fault. I've deserved each and every one of them.

I let my eyes flicker in Nielle's direction. Sure enough, her large brown eyes are locked on my room. I expect her to look frightened, but she doesn't. There is only that sympathetic gleam in her eye, like she knows I messed up, but she still feels bad.

I roll onto my side, wondering how she would look at me if she knew the truth. Because the truth is, I don't fear the slaps either. It is only when Mother calls me to the storage room, only when the braided whip strikes my spine that the real fear begins.