He said it was a lesson in accountability, for her and for us. We would each make one cut, somewhere Clem’s clothes would hide. Rachel would go first.
JAMIE: You didn’t.
SHAY: I’ll never forget the way the air smelled. Like iron and animal, rich and tangy, so thick you could practically taste it. Or the way Clem looked at me when I faced her. I’d expected her eyes to be vacant, like they were when Don punished her. But they were burning. Accusatory.
I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I think Clem had woken up, and the look in her eyes was her trying to wake me up, too. But in the moment, I thought she was trying to blame me—like her inability to follow the rules was my fault. All of my guilt and fear turned into anger because it was easier. I’m grateful Don gave us only one cut. I’m not sure what I would have done on my own.
JAMIE: You don’t mean that.
SHAY: Look at me, Jamie.
JAMIE: I can’t imagine you hurting anyone.
SHAY: Look at me. I didn’t just do it. I wanted to. How do you come back from that?
JAMIE: I don’t think I can hear any more. I’m sorry, I know it’s not what a journalist’s supposed to say. But I’m more than that with you.
SHAY: I’m telling you so you understand. The truth is burning in me, like a fever. I have to tell.
（Silence.）
Just listen. I didn’t know this the night we cut Clem, but my punishment wasn’t over. Or maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a punishment. Maybe it was Don’s plan all along, what he’d been building up to. But a week later, at midnight, he knocked on our bedroom door and said, “All of you. Now.”
Clem was still healing, and my back was still raw, but we knew we had to go. We followed him into his room, where Rachel was waiting. He lined them against the wall, but stood me in the center. I’d never had everyone watch before. I didn’t like it—especially Rachel, who’d been eyeing my welted back all week. But I knew I had to, so I started to slip off my nightgown, letting my mind untether. By that point, life was about making it from one moment to the next.
But Don seized my wrist and said, “Shay. Meet Mr. X.”
A man walked into the room wearing a dark suit and driving gloves. I will never forget those gloves, or his mane of silver hair. He had the face of a wolf. Even whiskers. When I looked at him, all I could see was his hunger. Whatever he was going to do to me, he’d been waiting a long time to do it.
I hadn’t imagined it could get worse, and now worse was standing right in front of me.
Mr. X looked at Don and said, “You’re right. She’s beautiful.”
Don said, “I told you. Texas beauty queen.”
The man’s eyes trailed down my body. He said to Don, “You told me I could do anything.”
Don said, “Everything you’ve been holding back since the divorce. Think of how that bitch emasculated you. Let it out.”
The man with the wolf’s mane grabbed me by the throat so fast it took a moment for the feeling to break through the shock. And when it did, I couldn’t even scream.
Mr. X was breathing hard. He wiped a hand over his mouth and said, “You were right. I needed this. You’re a sage, my friend.”
Don said, “Shay, take off your clothes.”
I didn’t move.
He said it again: “Take off your clothes, Shay.” And I had a moment—just a second—where I thought of saying no.
JAMIE: Stop. I can’t listen anymore. I know it’s unprofessional, I know you want to tell me, but I can’t do it. I just can’t—