Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Breathe. Relax.
I tell myself, forcing air into my lungs in slow, measured breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth, the way Mom taught me when I had panic attacks after she got sick. I can’t let the dread of the situation sink its claws all the way into my spine, can’t let it paralyze me completely. I might be naive and innocent, but I’m not stupid. I have to survive.
I will survive this.
My eyes burn with unshed tears that I blink away. I won’t let them fall. Won’t let myself become weak.
What’s crying going to do? It won’t get me out of here.
An image of my father pops into my head. His gentle face lined with worry and sadness. He needs me. He doesn’t have anyone else, only me. After Mom died, I became his whole world.
If I disappear, if I don’t come home, it will destroy him.
I need to find a way to escape, or to convince Calder to let me go.
His motives are unclear, but he has to have some type of plan. Right? I gather my thoughts, force myself to think methodically, and assess my surroundings.
The room I’m in is small, claustrophobic even, with the bed taking up a good portion of the space. The mattress is thin but not uncomfortable, the sheets rough but clean.
There’s a small end table beside the bed, scarred wood that’s seen better days. A wooden trunk is tucked against the end of the what, queen-sized bed?
A stone hearth is situated in the far corner of the room. It’s cold and dark now, but I can see a few lingering embers. Beside it sits a rudimentary kitchen area—a pump sink that looks like it came from another century, a small counter with a hot plate, some shelves with canned goods and supplies stacked haphazardly.
There’s even a tiny table with two mismatched chairs, one with a broken spindle. Across from the bed, partially hidden in shadow, I can see another door—probably a bathroom, maybe? Could he be in there right now, watching me from the darkness?
The handcuff is split across a chain, the chain being maybe three feet long at most. Even if I stretched all the way out, I wouldn’t be able to reach the bathroom.
I’m stuck here, tethered to this bed like an animal in a trap, unable to move freely, unable to access the most basic human dignity.
There are no pictures on the walls, no personal touches.
No trace of a life lived here, or a person who exists beyond the bare necessities.
This isn’t a home. It’s a hideout.
Somewhere no one knows exists, where no one will find me. My heart lurches in my chest, panic mounting all over again like a wave I can’t outrun. I had learned a number of things growing up—CPR from the community center, sewing from my mother, how to grow vegetables in our church garden, and how to comfort the grieving and pray with the sick.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for this.
For being at the mercy of a man who kills without hesitation.
The man on my porch isn’t the one I’d imagined—the one with quiet eyes and a soft touch, who once carried me into the hospital and sat with me when they set the bone or helped strangers without expecting a thanks.
Those glimpses of goodness don’t fit the monster I saw last night.
Calder is the devil in disguise—like Lucifer, an angel of light hiding in plain sight.
My heart refused to see it, clinging to those fleeting moments in the hospital, and on my birthday. Now I’m cursing myself for kissing him, or ever thinking there was a good person inside him.
My father said Jesus forgives all, and maybe he would forgive Calder, but I never will.
I rest my back against the bedframe, and the cold seeps into my bones through the thin cotton. It’s cold, and it’s only going to get colder.
My only hope is that Calder returns soon, and when he does, I’ll have some plan or way to talk myself out of this. At the edge of the bed, I spot a metal bucket.
What could that be for? It hits me then. It’s for me. I can’t reach the bathroom so I’ll have to use the bucket if I need to go.
The humiliation of it burns a hole of shame in my stomach.
My eyes dart away from the bucket, like if I don’t look at it, it might disappear. That’s when I see a piece of paper on the edge of the bedside table with writing on it, the letters dark and bold against white. Leaning forward as far as the handcuff will allow, I squint and read the small words scrawled in masculine handwriting.
I’ll be back by dark. Use the bucket if you gotta. -C
The note is curt, practical, and completely devoid of emotion.