Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 8

✨Cracks In The Lock.✨

Floyd had always believed that right and wrong were clear things.

Straight lines. Clear borders. You stayed on one side, and if you didn’t, you deserved whatever came from crossing over.

That belief had kept him steady for years.

Until tonight.

He stood in his room with the door shut, palms pressed flat against the desk, staring down at the things he had laid out like evidence against himself: a folded bus pass, a small stack of notes bound with twine, and a hand-drawn map he had copied carefully over weeks—paths through the countryside, shortcuts Trump never walked, roads that led away instead of back.

His chest felt tight. Not fear exactly.

Something worse.

Knowing.

He had watched Flora shrink. Watched her learn to move quietly, to breathe carefully, to fold herself into the shape Trump demanded.

He had told himself it was discipline.

Protection. Order.

But discipline didn’t make someone flinch at footsteps. Protection didn’t steal sleep. Order didn’t hollow out a girl’s eyes.

Floyd closed his eyes.

If I do this, he thought, I can never undo it.

The house creaked—a low, familiar sound.

Night settling in. Trump’s room was dark.

Margery had already retired. The kind of silence that pretended to be peace.

Floyd exhaled slowly and gathered the items, tucking them into the lining of his jacket.

Then he moved.

Flora was awake.

She always was at night.

She lay curled on her side, staring at the wall, counting the spaces between her breaths the way she’d taught herself after the first escape attempt failed. The house felt too tight after dark, like the walls leaned in closer once the sun was gone.

A soft knock came.

Not Trump’s knock. Not sharp or demanding.

Three taps. A pause. Two more.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Floyd’s face to appear in the gap.

“Get up,” he whispered. “Quietly.”

For a moment, Flora thought she was dreaming. Or worse—being tested.

She didn’t move.

Floyd swallowed. “Flora. I don’t have time.”

Her legs trembled as she slid out of bed. She reached for her shoes, hands clumsy, breath shallow.

“What’s happening?” she whispered.

Floyd didn’t answer. He motioned her toward the door, then down the corridor, every step measured, every board avoided from memory.

They passed Cambilly’s room.

Flora stopped.

“I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I can’t leave her.”

Floyd hesitated, then opened Cambilly’s door himself.

Cambilly sat up instantly, eyes wide, already afraid.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

Flora crossed the room in two steps and dropped to her knees beside the bed, gripping her sister’s hands like an anchor.

“I’m leaving,” she said, tears spilling freely now. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want it like this.”

Cambilly shook her head, pulling Flora into her arms. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “Go. Please go.”

Floyd knelt beside them.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice rough, “I will get you out too. Not tonight. But soon. I promise.”

Cambilly looked at him—really looked.

Searching his face for the boy she grew up with beneath the man he’d become.

“You better,” she said. “Because I won’t survive waiting forever.”

Floyd nodded once. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

Footsteps sounded down the hall.

Margery.

She stood in the doorway in her nightdress, hair loose, eyes already wet—as if she had known this moment was coming long before it arrived.

Flora froze.

“Mother—”

Margery crossed the room and cupped Flora’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing away tears.

“Listen to me,” she whispered. “You are not

wrong for wanting to live.”

Flora broke.

She sobbed into her mother’s shoulder, body shaking with everything she’d been forced to hold inside. Margery held her tightly, rocking her just once, then pulling back before the sound could betray them.

She slipped something into Flora’s palm—a small pendant Flora had never seen before.

“For courage,” Margery said. “And so you remember who you are.”

Flora nodded, unable to speak.

Margery turned to Floyd then. Her voice was steady, but her eyes warned him.

“If anything happens to her—”

“I know,” Floyd said quietly. “I know.”

Margery kissed Cambilly’s forehead, then Flora’s, lingering a second longer.

“Run,” she whispered. “And don’t look back.”

The back door opened without a sound.

Cold night air rushed in, sharp and clean. Freedom smelled like damp earth and distance.

Floyd pressed the bundle into Flora’s hands.

“Money. Bus pass. The map is marked in red. Avoid the main road until sunrise. Don’t trust anyone who asks questions.”

Flora stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

Floyd looked away. “Because I can’t protect you here. And because if I don’t do this, I’ll become him.”

A shout echoed from the house.

Trump.

Floyd stiffened. “Go. Now.”

Flora hesitated, then threw her arms around him, holding tight for half a second.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Then she ran.

Across the yard. Through the trees. Along the path Floyd had memorized and redrawn until it lived behind his eyes.

She didn’t stop until the house disappeared.

And behind her, in the dark, Floyd stood alone—having finally chosen a side, knowing there was no turning back.

Cambilly’s Quiet Aftermath

Cambilly did not sleep.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe without Flora in it. The silence felt wrong—too wide, too empty, like a missing tooth her tongue kept returning to.

Flora should have been there. Turning.

Sighing. Whispering prayers she pretended not to believe in.

Instead, there was nothing.

Cambilly pressed her hand against her chest, as if she could keep her heart from making noise. Every sound now felt dangerous. The floorboard outside her door creaked once, settling. The walls ticked as the night cooled. Somewhere farther down the corridor, a door opened, then shut.

Trump was awake.

She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin, breathing shallow the way Flora used to when fear pressed too close.

She counted. One. Two. Three. The numbers didn’t help.

Her sister was gone.

Not taken. Not dragged. Gone because she had run. Because she had been brave enough—or desperate enough—to choose herself.

The thought made something inside Cambilly twist painfully. Pride and terror tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart.

Please let her be fast, she thought. Please let her be far.

Footsteps stopped outside her door.

Cambilly closed her eyes.

The handle turned once, slowly, testing. Then again, firmer. The door opened.

Light spilled across the floor.

“Where is she?” Trump’s voice was low, dangerous in its calm.

Cambilly didn’t answer.

Trump stepped inside. She could feel his presence like pressure, like gravity bending toward him. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I don’t know,” Cambilly said, and hated how steady her voice sounded. Truth didn’t shake.

Lies did.

Trump stared at her for a long moment. She could almost hear him measuring her, weighing fear against defiance.

Then he laughed—soft, humorless.

“She won’t get far,” he said. “They never do.”

The door slammed shut.

Cambilly waited until his footsteps faded before she let herself breathe.

Tears came then. Silent. Burning. She buried her face in the pillow Flora used to steal every morning, clutching the fabric like it could anchor her sister back into existence.

You made it, she told herself fiercely. You had to.

Morning arrived without ceremony.

At breakfast, Flora’s chair remained empty.

No one mentioned it.

Margery moved like a ghost, setting plates, pouring tea, her eyes fixed on nothing. Floyd arrived late, jaw tight, gaze lowered. Cambilly watched him carefully, searching for cracks.

When their eyes met, just once, Floyd nodded—small, almost imperceptible.

Soon, that nod said. I meant it.

Cambilly held onto that promise like a lifeline.

Trump cleared his throat. “The house rules remain unchanged,” he said, as if one of his children had not vanished into the world overnight. “Disobedience will not be tolerated.”

Cambilly lifted her spoon, hand steady.

Fear would not save her now. Silence might.

Later, alone in Flora's room, Cambilly sat on

her bed.

She traced the dent her sister’s body had left in the mattress, the familiar curve of it, already starting to fade. She opened the small box Flora kept beneath the bed—strings, scraps of paper, a ribbon from a dress they once shared.

Cambilly folded the ribbon carefully and tucked it into her pocket.

“They won’t erase you,” she whispered to the empty room. “I won’t let them.”

Outside the window, the road stretched away, pale in the morning light.

Somewhere along it, Flora was moving forward—alone, afraid, free.

Cambilly straightened her shoulders.

Wait for me, she thought. I’m coming.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like preparation.

Trump Discovers the Escape

Trump noticed the absence before he noticed the room.

The house had a rhythm. He knew it the way a man knows his own breathing—where each sound belonged, when each door should open, how long footsteps took to cross the corridor. Disorder announced itself to him like an itch beneath the skin.

He stopped in front of her door, one hand resting on the frame, eyes narrowing. The room smelled wrong. Not stale. Not asleep.

Too clean. Too empty.

“Flora,” he called.

No answer.

Trump stepped inside.

The bed was made—but not carefully.

Rushed. The pillow was missing its shape. The window latch sat closed just like he left it.

Trump stood very still.

Then he smiled.

So. She had finally tried again.

He turned slowly, scanning the room. Shoes gone. The small shawl missing. He crossed to the wardrobe and pushed aside the dresses, fingers brushing the back wall until he felt it—the absence of weight where something had been stored.

Money.

His jaw tightened.

“Floyd,” he called, voice calm, carrying.

Footsteps answered quickly. Too quickly.

“Yes, Father?”

Trump didn’t look at him. “Wake your mother.

Bring Cambilly.”

Minutes later, they stood together in the corridor—Margery pale, Cambilly stiff, Floyd rigid as stone.

Trump faced them, hands clasped behind his back.

“Flora has left,” he said simply.

Cambilly’s breath caught. Margery said nothing.

Trump turned to Floyd. “You were on watch last night.”

“Yes.”

“And you saw nothing.”

“No.”

Trump stepped closer. “Say it again.”

“I saw nothing,” Floyd repeated, jaw clenched.

Silence stretched.

Trump nodded once. “Very well.”

He turned away, already moving. “Lock the gates. Alert the town contact. She’ll need transport—no girl walks that far alone.”

Margery finally spoke. “You won’t find her.”

Trump paused.

Slowly, he turned back to her. His expression was almost gentle. “Every girl thinks that.”

He looked at Cambilly next. “Your sister is foolish. Emotional. She will be scared. She will make mistakes.”

Cambilly lifted her chin. “She’s stronger than you think.”

Trump’s smile sharpened. “Strength without permission is rebellion.”

His gaze slid back to Floyd. “If you are hiding something,” he said softly, “now would be the time to confess.”

Floyd met his eyes. “I’m not.”

For a moment, Trump studied him.

Measuring. Testing.

Then he nodded. “Good.”

He turned away again. “Breakfast will proceed as usual.”

Margery stared at his back. “You’re not angry?”

Trump stopped at the doorway.

“Oh, I am,” he said quietly. “But anger is loud.

This requires patience.”

He left.

The house seemed to exhale—too late.

Trump returned to his study and closed the door.

Only then did he allow his face to harden.

He went to the desk and opened a drawer, removing a ledger marked with names, dates, arrangements. Flora’s name sat neatly on the page, ink still fresh.

He drew a single line through it.

“Run,” he murmured. “It won’t save you.”

Outside, somewhere beyond his reach—for now—Flora was moving farther away.

Inside the house, Trump began tightening the net.

And everyone felt it.