“Thanks.”
She pushed her chair back and stood slowly, certain that the thundering of her heart would set Tim off. He waited for her to stand then went back to finishing his dinner. Riley took one glance at the top of his head as he ate, and when the adrenaline surged through her, she took off running—or tried to.
Her feet were still bound.
The duct tape loosened up a tiny bit, but Riley was going down. Her body hit the moldy, dirty floor with a thud, and the wind was sucked out of her. But Riley refused to stop. She clawed at the ground, wriggling toward the door, her fingers digging into the floor. She felt the wood splintering at her fingertips, the old, dead wood pricking into her flesh. It hurt, but Riley didn’t care. She only wanted out.
“What are you trying to do?” Tim was standing over her, his body blocking most of the light in the room, throwing Riley into a dark shadow. “What are you doing?”
He was angry. As he yelled, spittle came out of his mouth and Riley thought about that night in the housing development—the car, the high beams, the man pounding on the sliding glass door and demanding she come out.
“That night.” Her chest was tight and sweat pricked out at her hairline and upper lip. “That…” She gasped, trying to suck precious air into her lungs. “Was…” Every word stabbed at her. “You.”
“You weren’t listening to me! Just like now.” Tim crouched down, his face a few inches from Riley’s. “You’re not listening to me!”
She was in full panic attack mode now, struggling to breathe as black streaks swirled in front of her eyes. Her head felt light but her temples pounded and she couldn’t remember what the doctor had told her to do. That seemed like lifetimes ago, anyway.
“What is wrong with you? Stop that! STOP THAT!”
But Tim’s proximity and his yelling was only making it worse.
“Stop!”
His hand sliced across her shoulder and connected with her cheek. She heard the smack of his palm before she felt the sting.
Everything stopped.
“You’re as bad as they are,” Tim spat, his voice low. “I don’t think I can trust you. Now don’t move or I’ll—I’ll have to…” His eyes flicked from her face to the floor behind her head. “Don’t you move or I’ll have to do something bad.”
The tears were pouring from Riley’s eyes as Tim stamped around the room, grabbing things from the shelf. He poured something on a towel and came at her with it. She tried to struggle; she used her arms to push him away, but he was strong and easily overwhelmed her, pinning her arms down and sitting on her chest. He pressed the cloth against her mouth and nose before she could protest, before she could scream. And then everything went dark.
? ? ?
Yellow-white sunlight poured over Riley’s forehead and she squinted, trying to block it out. Her head was throbbing to an angry, insistent drum beat, and she felt like she had been sleeping for days.
A little wiggle of something gleeful erupted inside of her. JD. Tim. Hempstead and Gail. It had all been a dream.
She opened her eyes, blinking away the fog and sleep then focusing on the blankets that covered her. The coverlet was cream-colored and smattered with delicate pink roses. She was in a single bed with a cheap white arching footboard. It stood out against the mildew-gray walls and the few remaining streaks of faded green wallpaper. Where was she?
It all came flooding back in a hideous filmstrip, and Riley pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and gently rocking. Fear fueled every cell, and she was almost too terrified to move, thinking that somehow, if she could stay perfectly still, she could fade away, ooze into the mattress, disappear. Her fingertips grabbed the fabric of her pants and she frowned, realizing that she was in a pair of knee-length flannel pants with ruffles around the hem. The shirt she wore, sleeveless with a baby-pink polka-dot pattern, matched the pants.
It wasn’t the pajamas that scared her—it was the fact that someone had put her in them. She started to breathe heavily again, to feel the sharp edges of another panic attack coming on, but she refused to allow herself to focus on that when there were much bigger issues at hand.
Where was she?
Where was Tim?
Did her parents even care that she was gone?
There were slippers placed under the bed for her, and Riley grimaced as she slid into them—they were her size, exactly, but nothing she would ever pick out. The swirly pink and purple pattern was too girly and young, something a child might like.