She heard the door open.

“Who the hell are you?” Charles’s voice.

Oh no. Oh bad. Frantically, she dropped her robe and yanked on jeans, a bra, and a T-shirt. Please let Sam be dressed. She hurried out.

Sam was dressed. Thank you, God. In the middle of the living room, both her children stared at him as if the man was the devil come to life.

Busted. Her lips quirked. Moms weren’t supposed to have sex, obviously. She’d always tried to be discreet the few times a man had spent the night, but honestly, she had a right to her own life. Her children were adults, after all—or so they kept informing her. “What are you two doing here?

They turned to her. Brenna’s face was white. Flushed with anger, Charles glared at her. “No, the question is what were you doing?” He slapped a newspaper down on the coffee table.

She glanced at it. In a huge font, the headline read: SEX SLAVE VISITED FETISH CLUB. The letters started to dance up and down as a swarm of bees buzzed in her head. Her knees buckled.

Sam caught her with a steely arm around her waist. “Easy, girl. Sit.”

As he helped her into a chair, she wanted to cling—needed to. Instead she put her hands in her lap. The buzzing didn’t let up.

“That said”—Charles pointed to the paper—“you-you went to a BDSM club. Where they whip people. Perverts chain up women. You fucking brought the kidnapping on yourself.” She’d never seen him wear such a look of disgust, and he was looking at her.

Perverts. An invisible hand ringed Linda’s throat, squeezing her words back, keeping them inside. “I’m not—”Not dirty, not filthy, not a pervert. Am I? Just last night, she’d let Sam hurt her. Had liked it.

Brenna had tears in her eyes. “Everyone in my dorm saw the newspaper. Were whispering about…you. They know you’re my mother.” Her voice got louder. “You put us through all that because you went out trolling for sex? Everyone’s going to think I’m a slut.”

“I didn’t—” How could she explain the difference?

“Your mother was the victim,” Sam snapped. “Don’t treat her like—”

“Who the fuck are you?” Charles’s color heightened as he looked at Sam, then her.

She glanced at Sam. Dressed but unshaven. And her cheeks and neck were undoubtedly reddened from the beard stubble. Her lips swollen.

“I saw pictures from the club. Women being whipped.” Brenna stared at Linda as if she’d turned into something hideous. “How could you go to a place like that?”

“Yeah, whipping. For real.” Charles’s jaw jutted out, and he took a step toward Sam. “So you some big bad sadist? Didn’t think we’d know those words, huh, Mom? Isn’t the fucking Internet great?” He widened his stance as he glared at Sam. “You a sadist? Huh?”

A whirlpool of misery was pulling Linda in.

Sam dismissed her son as if he were a two-year-old having a tantrum. “Not your business, boy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

Damn you, Sam. With that answer, he might as well have said yes.

As her children stared at Sam, Linda lowered her head. Her hands trembled. Abrasions from the rope Sam had used on her wrists showed below the shirtsleeves. She pulled in a breath and lost it again because her children were looking at her. As if she were a freak.

“I feel sick,” Brenna said.

“Yeah.” Charles’s lips curled up. “You’re just a—”

“Don’t finish that.” Sam’s voice was a threatening growl.

Charles took a hasty step back.

Her heart seemed to crack within her chest. They don’t know—don’t understand. At their age, a parent’s vulnerability would be treated with scorn. She’d seen how cruel children could be.

But not mine. Not until now.

Linda rose, surprised the floor held her even though the world had shattered. Her eyes blurred with tears as she looked at her daughter. Once she’d been so little and her mommy had been the only one who could comfort her. So many memories. Walking and rocking her for hours when she had croup, singing lullabies after a nightmare, picking just the right cartoon Band-Aid for a scraped knee.

Her lips trembled as she turned to her son. How many hours had she sat with him in her lap? His cheeks flushed with fever, head on her shoulder, sucking his thumb as they watched The Lion King for the hundredth time. Now he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.

Maybe she hadn’t seen them before either. “Go.”

“What?” Charles said.

“Get out.” Linda pointed to the door. “All of you. I don’t want any of you in my house.”

“But—” Brenna took a step forward.

Linda felt sobs welling up, and sheer rage drove them back. She turned her gaze to Sam, who’d as much as admitted he was a sadist. “You too. Out.”

He frowned, glanced at her children, then simply walked out the door.

She turned her attention to her self-righteous children. They’d never even been spanked, let alone beaten. Not been whipped. Or raped. Or called names like “slut” and “whore.” Never gone hungry. And somehow grown up without any compassion whatsoever.

She’d thought she was a good mother, but she’d failed. “Get out. I don’t want you in my house.”

Charles turned white. “Mom?”

“Get. Out!” The first tear spilled over as she watched them leave. More tears followed as she stumbled to the door, locked it, and sagged against it. Why. Oh God, why?

She should never have returned. Should have gone far away. Should have died instead of Holly. Burying her face in her arms, she cried.

* * * *

Hours later, Linda walked into her store. Gail’s first grandchild was being baptized, and Linda had agreed to let her clerk off early.

If not for that, she might not have left her house at all, especially after reading the newspaper. Dwayne had interviewed a person who’d watched Linda being flogged in the BDSM club the night she was abducted. The slanted wording implied that in being kidnapped, she’d gotten what was coming to her.

No wonder her children had been upset. But the way they’d behaved? As she forced tears back, the hole in her heart gushed agony with every beat. But she’d survive. Slavery had taught her how to do that. She’d learned how to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter what happened. Survival didn’t mean she didn’t hurt; it only meant she was alive.

“Good, you’re here!” Her clerk looked up, and her smile wavered slightly. She’d obviously read the paper.

“I’m here,” Linda said. The dirty slut has arrived. Here was one more person who thought she was scum. “Get on to that baptism before you’re late.” Maybe she should ask if Gail would be back tomorrow, but she couldn’t take another blow. Not today.

“Been steady business all day.” Gail’s voice drifted from the back room as she retrieved her purse. She reappeared, a tall, slim woman slightly older than Linda. She started to walk past, then shook her head. “Honey, I’ve never seen anyone look so in need of a hug.” She wrapped her arms around Linda and squeezed, then stepped back.

“I…I did need that. Thank you.”

“Nah.” The gray-green eyes hardened. “My Cindy was assaulted when she was sixteen. The scumbag’s lawyer tried to make it sound like she’d asked for it, and thank God, the prosecutor flattened him good. But I got a good education in warped thinking. So maybe you like your sex on the kinky side, but that’s not asking for rape any more than Cindy’s wearing sexy clothes. That’s how I see it. Now buck up.” She gave Linda a firm nod and strode out of the store.

Linda stared after her. “Well.” She’d misread Gail’s expression completely. Had she been retreating from people without needing to?

On the drive to the store, she’d wondered again if she even wanted to stay in the town. But she loved her beach shop, loved the gulls strutting along the boardwalk, the quiet sound of the waves, and the chattering of the tourists. Loved the way their sunburned faces brightened at seeing the unique handcrafted souvenirs. She’d worked too hard to get the store going. She and the children had painted the walls. A friend had designed the sign. Her craftspeople relied on her to sell their goods.

Her chin rose. This was her place, and she wouldn’t give anyone—especially Dwayne—the satisfaction of knowing they’d driven her out. I’m staying.

That afternoon, she bent her efforts to being the most welcoming shopkeeper on the beachfront and was so successful that it was closing time before she realized it.

After locking the door and shutting off the lights, she pulled her cell phone out and stared at it. Call the children?

The longing to hear their voices, to fix the problem, shook her. Her finger hovered over the keypad, then moved away.

No. They were wrong. No matter how comforting, calling them would demonstrate that they could get away with such behavior.

They already felt they knew all the answers.

Speaking of answers, why had Sam answered the way he had? Why did he have to confirm all their suspicions? As bitter anger welled inside her, impossible to set aside, she pulled out her car keys.