I’d rather pass out. So I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. I was already so tired of this. Exhausted. It had been only a few days. I’d lost count exactly how many, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed to go. I needed to escape before he ended me for good—
The door of the shed suddenly swung open, letting in a sliver of waning sunlight, and then it was gone, the door shutting with a foreboding, soft click. I went stiff, tried to hold my breath so I could hear him sneak in.
The softness was what scared me the most. I’d rather he come blazing in here, his anger palpable, his voice loud. Instead, he crept in like a sneak. Like your worst nightmare come to life. Quiet and calculating, and with an eerie smile on his face.
I kept my back to him, my muscles rigid despite my trembling. Everything inside of me ached and I pressed my dry, cracked lips together, trying to keep in the whimper that wanted to escape.
“Hey.”
At the sound of the soft male voice I whirled around. Shock and relief caused tears to spring into my eyes and I sagged against the wall. “You came,” I breathed.
He moved toward me, the boy who I’d thought was a liar. I was wrong. He stood in front of me like my hero come to life, his dark eyes intent as he studied me, his mouth drawn into a thin line. My gaze dropped from his face to see he carried something I’d never seen before in his hand. It had long handles and the metal tip reminded me of pliers.
It looked like a weapon. Like he could raise it above his head and smash it down on me in seconds.
“A bolt cutter.” He lifted it up and I flinched, which he noticed. His gaze filled with pain, he settled on his knees at the edge of the mattress. “Come here—it’ll be okay. I won’t hurt you. I want to cut off the chain. First from your ankle, then your wrists. It’ll be easier that way.”
Relief filled me again and my heart practically sang with hope. I moved away from the wall, thrusting my leg out toward him, desperate to be rid of the chain once and for all. I couldn’t miss the way he winced when he saw the bruises on my calf, my knee.
My thigh.
He ignored the bruises, the marks. His dark eyebrows scrunched together as he bent over my leg, his black-as-night hair falling over his forehead. The hair was unnaturally dark and I wondered if he dyed it.
I also wondered why.
“Tell me your name,” he huffed out as he reached for my ankle, his touch tentative as he maneuvered my foot just so. The action reminded me of him. Of the man who took me, and for a quick moment I seized up, my chest tight, my heart pounding.
“Tell me yours first,” I whispered, the words rushing out of me, almost slurring together. My head felt woozy and I knew it was from lack of food. I was so hungry, so thirsty.
He lifted his head, his gaze meeting mine once more. Dark and direct, serious and full of fear, he looked just as scared, just as unsure as I felt. “Will,” he whispered.
“I’m Katie,” I whispered back, flinching when I felt the cold, thick metal of the tool as it curled around the chain and brushed against my skin.
“Don’t move, Katie,” he warned me, his gaze dropping from mine once more so he could concentrate on the task at hand. I watched, too. Noted how his hands gripped the handles of the bolt cutter and he inhaled deeply, as if he needed to prepare himself. Give himself strength. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
My heart tripped over itself. That was the exact moment I knew this boy was my guardian angel, sent to protect me. Only me.
He was mine.
“So.” Dr. Sheila Harris folds her hands in her lap, the docile smile on her face unassuming. Nonthreatening. “How’s your week been? Have you been making progress toward your goals?”
I tear my gaze away from hers, keeping it focused on my fingernails. My cuticles are a mess and I pick at them, tear one so hard I start to bleed. She asks me this question every single time I’m here, though the goals part is new, a reference to the conversation we had last week. “Oh, you know. The usual. I did an interview on national television with Lisa Swanson. No biggie.”
“I saw the interview.” Amusement laces Dr. Harris’s tone. She’d known I was doing it. The interview had been a topic of discussion for a while. It was part of my plan. One of my goals in the hope that I’d find peace, find strength.
Not sure if I agree with those goals, but I’m trying.
“What did you think?” I ask.
“I thought you were very brave,” she says, her tone now solemn. “You revealed more than I expected.”
Lifting my head, I study her covertly. She’s watching me, that neutral smile still planted on her face, ever patient, ever kind. “I wanted to be completely honest and open.”
“Do you think that was smart?”
I think about it before I answer. “I’m not sure. It’s been crazy,” I admit. “All sorts of media outlets reaching out to me. Agents. Publicists. Magazines. Websites. They all want to talk.”
“You didn’t think that would happen?”
“I knew it would. That part didn’t come as a surprise.” I’d been fully prepared. Or so I thought.