“Let’s check the woodshed,” I say.
Marcus nods, his face shadowed under his baseball cap, gestures for me to go first. He shines a beam of light ahead. The concrete stairs are slippery, wet with rain and leaves. I scan the forest as though I’m searching for Angus. Where would be a good place to take off? The land is rugged, steep with cliffs.
“I need to fix my boot.” I bend over to lace my hiking boots, wondering how fast I can run in them. Marcus is standing behind me on the narrow stairs, the light aimed at my feet. I’d hoped he would pass, but he’s still playing at being a gentleman. I scour the ground, looking for a rock, a branch, something I can grab fast, but there’s nothing, only a river of rainwater.
I start to stand up. Something slams into the back of my head and I pitch forward, land hard on my hands and knees. Pain ricochets through the back of my skull, down my spine in a sharp jolt. I try to get to my feet, but my arms sway, the steps rush toward me, and my face smacks into the edge of the concrete. My teeth snap together, my cheekbone throbs. I taste blood.
Beside me, Marcus’s boots. Black tips, shiny with rain.
“Lindsey?” His voice sounds far away, floating in and out like I’m underwater. “Can you hear me?” The world is crumbling at the edges, darkness pulling me down. I need to stay awake, need to protect myself. I try to crawl, reach for the step below. I slide down on my torso, topple to the side, and land in the mud, the river of rain flooding my legs. I’m looking up at Marcus.
He’s raising his arm, the flashlight coming toward my head.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I blink slowly as I wake up. The ceiling blurs. I blink some more until it comes into focus. I try to raise my hand to feel the side of my head, but there’s something sticking to my wrists. Duct tape. More across my mouth, pulling at the skin. My legs won’t move either. My ankles are taped together. I’m soaking wet, and cold. So cold. I’m just wearing my shirt and jeans; my coat and boots are gone.
I look to the side, and the world shifts and distorts and spins. My stomach rises into my mouth, bitter acid. I can’t see Marcus, but I hear movement, rustling. I slowly lift my head.
He’s at the other end of the room, hunched over in front of the dresser. He’s changed into a camouflaged coat. I’ve never seen it before. He looks like a hunter.
My body starts shaking hard, my muscles clenched as I yank and twist my wrists. It’s no use. The knife under the pillow. I bring my hands up. Too late. He’s turning around.
“You’re awake.” As he moves toward the bed, I push my bound feet against the mattress, use my stomach muscles to pull myself up, press my back against the headboard. I’m breathing hard behind my gag, taking quick rushes of air in and out through my nose. I’ll kick him. I’ll lift my legs and kick him in the stomach. I’ll use my fists like a club. I’ll stab my fingers into his eyes.
He stops at the bottom of the bed, slides some shirts into a duffel bag. He didn’t have a bag when we arrived—he had a suitcase. This is army-green, wilderness survival style. Now he’s at the closet, pulling clothes off the hanger. He folds the shirts, places them carefully in the bag.
What’s his plan? He doesn’t look angry, or even upset. His movements are quick and efficient. Not rushed.
He didn’t kill me. He could have, but he hasn’t yet. That has to mean something. He’s taking me with him? Like a captive? I listen for sirens, but I can only hear wind outside.
Now he’s in the bathroom. I reach for the knife, feel around with my fingers. Where did it go? He’s coming out. I pull my hands back in front of me. He goes down to the bottom of the bed with his shaving kit, unzips it, brings out the container with the pills, and pushes them around with his finger. Counting. Then he glances at the water glass, meets my eyes.
“You were going to drug me, just like you did with Andrew.”
I grunt behind the tape, hold my hands out in a plea, then point them toward my mouth, beg him with my eyes. Take the tape off! Let me talk, please! I can explain!
He drops the shaving kit into the duffel bag. “We both know if I take off the tape, you’ll scream.” He still thinks the kids are in the house. He hasn’t checked the bedrooms, that’s why he’s moving so unhurriedly. He thinks he has time. What will he do if he hears sirens?
His hand is in his pocket, something jingles as he takes it out. Keys. Now he’s crouching in front of the chest. I can only see the top of his baseball cap, hear the snick of the lock, then things being moved around. When he stands back up, he’s gripping a gun.
I press myself harder against the headboard, hold my hands out in front of me. I’m shaking my head, making animal noises as I choke on my strangled breath.