Page 43 of Jenna's Protector
“I…” My mouth goes dry, memories threatening to overwhelm me. Carter’s hand tightens around mine, anchoring me. “I never said they were Sentinel. I only recognized a tattoo.”
“Of course. Anything you can tell us could be invaluable.” Ethan nods, apologetic.
“It’s just when Blake drew the character forshàobing,I recognized it as the one on—on that man’s wrist.” I absently stroke the inside of my wrist, where my tattoo resides.
The words come slowly at first, each one a struggle, but as I delve deeper, the floodgates open. I recount the training facility—a clinical place with endless corridors and locked doors—the grueling hours spent learning to walk in impossibly high heels, how to laugh at the right moment, to be seen and not heard, and how they taught us to be the perfect companion, molding us into living dolls for the wealthy and powerful.
I describe the opulent parties; my voice catching as I recall the crystal chandeliers, the champagne flowing like water, and theleering faces of men who saw us as nothing more than exquisite toys, and how the air hung thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne, masking the stench of corruption and greed.
Then, I reach the night of the auction. My voice wavers as I describe the cold metal stage beneath my feet, the blinding lights that left me feeling exposed and vulnerable, and the cruel curl of the buyer’s lip as he raised his paddle, his eyes raking over me like I was a prized mare at a horse auction.
“He had a tattoo on his wrist,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Harsh lines and angles. Chinese characters. It caught my eye when he… When he touched me.”
Mitzy leans forward, her vibrant hair catching the light. “Was he the only man you saw with a tattoo like that?”
I pause, thinking back. “I-I’m not sure. They all wore suits to these events, with long sleeves and cufflinks. I didn’t pay attention to their wrists. It’s possible others had them, but I can’t say for certain.”
I pause, steeling myself for what comes next. “After he bought me, they—they held me down. Tattooed me with invisible ink.” I turn my wrist over, tracing the spot where the mark lies. “It’s the same symbol as his tattoo, but there’s also a number—the number nine.”
The room is silent, the weight of my words palpable. Carter’s grip on my hand tightens, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and determination.
“Why do you think they used invisible ink on you when the man who purchased you had a visible tattoo?” Mitzy taps her fingers on the table. “That doesn’t make sense.”
I shake my head, feeling lost. “I don’t know. Maybe—maybe they didn’t want us visibly marked? Or perhaps it was a way to track us without others knowing. I’m sorry, I don’t understand their reasoning.”
The room falls silent as everyone processes this information. Minds turn, trying to piece together the puzzle of Sentinel and its operations.
I look up, meeting the pensive expressions of those around me.
“I don’t know if nine meant I was the ninth girl he bought or if it was some serial number. I just… I never understood what it meant.”
The silence stretches, broken only by the soft hum of computers and my ragged breathing. I’ve laid bare my darkest memories, and now I wait, hoping that somehow, this painful recollection might bring justice to others who have suffered.
When I describe the man’s wrist tattoo and the intricate lines that have haunted my dreams, Forest’s face flashes with a flicker of recognition. He and Skye exchange a look. The interaction between them is gone in an instant, but it’s enough to make me wonder what they know.
The room falls silent as I finish recounting my story. Carter squeezes my hand gently, then turns to address the group.
“Jenna has something else that might help us,” he says, his voice steady. “Jenna, would you mind showing them your sketchbook?”
I hesitate for a moment, my grip tightening on my bag. These sketches are deeply personal, a visual record of my trauma, but they could be crucial to the investigation. Slowly, I pull out the sketchbook and place it on the table.
“These are drawings of the men, the facilities, the auction house.” I open the book, my hands trembling slightly.
As I flip through the pages, the charcoal line sketches come to life—haunting images of my past. The team gathers around, their faces reflecting both curiosity and concern.
“This is the training facility.” I point to a detailed drawing of a building with high walls. “And here’s the auction house.”
Mitzy leans in, her eyes widening. “The level of detail here is incredible. Stitch, are you seeing this?”
Stitch nods, already snapping pictures with her phone. “We might be able to run these through our image recognition software and see if we can find any matches.”
Mitzy looks up, her vibrant hair catching the light. “Jenna, do you know where these places were located?”
I shake my head, a familiar sense of frustration washing overme. “No, I’m sorry. We were never allowed to see outside when we were traveling. The windows were always blacked out.”
“How long were you in the vehicles when you traveled between locations?” Stitch leans in, her dark eyes intense.
“It varied.” I try to recall, my brow furrowing. “Sometimes, it was as short as an hour. Other times, it could be five or six hours, but we were never flown anywhere, always driven.”