“What makes you say that?”
“Well, she did break into my house. That’s strange enough, but it’s more than that. She mutters to herself, and she’s always wearing black.” Mrs. Dixon sighed. “When the girl was younger, I use to wake up to her screaming for help in the middle of the night. It was a frightful time—let me tell you. I called the police every time it happened. And every time the police told me she had some sort of mental disorder and that her father was doing everything he could to keep her outbursts under control.” She shrugged. “Her screams haven’t woken me in years, but that bloodcurdling cry is still stuck in my mind. I’ve considered moving away. Many of us in the neighborhood have.”
“Because you think Zee could be a danger to you?”
“Not the girl—her father,” she said. “He’s strange, yes. And if you ask me, there’s also something disturbing about Arlo Gatley.” Mrs. Dixon smoothed the front of her crisp, clean blouse and then peeked over Jessie’s shoulder as if she was afraid someone might be listening in. “I’m going to have to say goodbye. Talk to the others. Maybe they can help.”
“I will. Thanks for your time.”
Before Jessie had a chance to turn away, the door clicked shut in her face.
As she walked on the sidewalk toward the house Mrs. Dixon had pointed out, she saw before her a quaint picture of a tree-lined street with white picket fences bordering newly mowed lawns. The click of her shoes was the only sound as she moved down the street. A hint of jasmine filled the air. If not for the disturbing images on Zee’s wall and the thought of that same young woman screaming out for help in the dark of night, Jessie might have found a peaceful sort of solace on her short walk to the Foxletters’ house.
Instead she felt chilled to the bone.
NINETEEN
Erin’s eyes snapped open at the sound of heavy footsteps against the ground. Her space inside the box was so cramped she could hardly move.
Her claustrophobia was real, making her heart race. Breathe. Calm down.
Pressing her lips together, she forced herself to remain quiet. If the footsteps continued on, she would scream. Because that could mean there were other people, hired help who came by to feed the animals. Even now she could hear pigs grunting and ducks quacking. The rooster would crow at sunrise.
But if the footsteps stopped, that would mean it could be him. In that case, she would stay quiet. If he opened the lid, she could use the splinters of wood she’d collected to gouge his eyes out.
Being confined did strange things to her mind. She had no idea how long she’d been in the box. She’d been drifting in and out of sleep, hot during the day and cold at night.
Two nights or three?
If she thought about it for too long, she could convince herself she’d been trapped in the cramped space for a lifetime.
Dry mouth and stomach cramps made her crave water and food. She’d eaten a couple of bugs that had dared to creep inside her space. Or had she imagined eating the bugs?
Waiting, trying not to make a sound, she lifted her arms a few inches. Up and down, up and down. Keep the muscles working. Inwardly, she recited Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address to keep her mind occupied on anything other than the footsteps. Stay strong. Be ready.
The footsteps stopped, seemingly right outside the box.
She froze. It was him.
Holding tight to the pieces of jagged wood, her fingers clenched tightly around her makeshift weapons.
“Good morning, Erin. Are you still in there?” he asked.
The sound of his voice gave her goose bumps. She closed her eyes, swallowed her fear.
“If you want any chance of getting out of there alive, you need to follow orders, my darling Erin. Do you hear me?”
The clinking of metal sounded. A lock?
Sunlight poured in. Blinding her.
And then she felt a single drop of water hit her forehead.
Squinting one eye, she saw that he hadn’t opened the lid, but only a tiny door above her face. How had she missed that?
It was small. The size of a single pack of cigarettes. There was no way she could move her arms, let alone take a swing at him.
“You must be thirsty,” he said. “Open your mouth.”
She did as he said, her mouth parched.
A handful of dirt hit her face. She spit and coughed. Dirt got in her eye. Tears dribbled down both sides of her face. He was taunting her and enjoying it.
“Good girl,” he said. “Just having a little fun. Come on. Open up. This time I’ll give you some water. I promise.”
She kept her mouth shut. Said nothing. If she opened her mouth, he might shove something worse than dirt inside.
He knelt down close enough that she could see his face clearly through a squinted eye. “You’ve spent two nights in the box without food or water. I know you’re thirsty. So open up or I’ll have to force the issue.”
He knelt down and pinched her nose closed. When she opened her mouth to take a breath, he shoved an upside-down open water bottle into her mouth. She swallowed once before she felt as if she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe. She yanked her head to one side, forcing him to let go of her nose and drop the water bottle.
She sucked in air through her nostrils, then coughed and wheezed.
“If you had followed orders,” he told her, “you were going to get to feast on fresh vegetables and fine cheese.” He laughed. She knew it was a lie. This was all part of his psychological torture.
“But now,” he went on, his tone filled with false sorrow, “I can see that you’re not ready to cooperate with me, which means you’ll have to share your tiny space with my friend S-S-S-Stan. I found him in the garden. He looks pretty harmless—for a snake, that is.”
She screamed as the heaviness of the snake’s body slid across her face and neck. And then again when the tiny door above clicked shut.
He stood there for a moment, hands on hips, listening to her muffled screams and looking out at the pasture, where he could see the gray mare. The box used to be in the barn, but a few years ago he’d decided it was time to burn it and get rid of it once and for all. He’d dragged it down the dirt path toward the house, but it was heavy, and he’d gotten only halfway before changing his mind. Now the box sat in a grassy spot at the side of the pathway leading from the house to the barn.
After Erin stopped screaming, he walked away, surprised to realize how much he missed Garrett. Garrett had been the only one of his sheep who had done everything he asked and more. He’d never complained, never cried or whined. And now he was dead, thanks to the bitch in the box.
The box was not a fun place to be, and it might teach Erin Hayes a lesson, just as it had taught him once. His father used to put him in the box a few times a year. The first time he’d thought he would die and nobody would ever find him.
When he’d turned twelve, not long after Sue Sterling had paid them a visit, things had changed.
For the worse.
His father had become creative with his methods of torture. Instead of putting his only son’s splayed hands on a red-hot burner, beating him with a belt, or throwing him in the box, he’d found ways to exploit his fears and phobias. His dad had begun to threaten to cut off his feet or his ears or peel off his fingernails. Psychological torture at its best. Designed to mess with his mind and cause stress. He’d lost sleep thinking about what his father might do. Never mind what he’d already done.