“Are you…Vesper Rivers?” he asks.
Am I? I have her face, her body, her hair and eyes, but am I the girl that was taken months ago? I don't know anymore. If he's here to save me, he wouldn't be returning her, he'd be bringing back a stranger.
But lying doesn't seem like an option, and I nod hesitantly.
He lets out a heavy breath and stumbles back. “I'm…I'm sorry,” he says, stepping back outside, feeling for the door.
“Who are you?” I ask desperately, confused and frightened by his reaction.
“I…I have to go,” he stammers, shutting the door.
“Wait!” I shout, pounding and pushing against the door as he locks it. “Who are you?” I shout. But as I am so accustomed to, I am met with silence.
I pace back and forth, trying to place the face. It's so familiar. Then, with the intensity of a lightning strike it hits me all at once. I rummage through my things for pieces of the news clippings I tore during one of the times Sam taunted me. I had gathered some and hidden them under my mattress early on. In case I had died but someone found this place, there would be a clue. I scatter them on my messy bed, and frantically piece them together. And that's when I confirm what my gut already knew. There is an image of the press conference. Below, a caption listing the people in it from left to right. The man who just locked me back in my cabin is the man who is supposed to save me: Sheriff Andrew “Scooter” Hunter-Ridgefield.
There's an unlikely calm in my truck as I drive back from the butcher. Is this what freedom feels like? I can't remember the last time I didn't feel like a prisoner to my urges. Last night, I realized this could be it. I might not have to live with the constant tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I watched the house for fifteen minutes before leaving. Trust doesn't mean I have to be completely naive. But Vesp didn't leave. I could see her go from room to room through the windows. I expected that. She's starving to know more about me, and it doesn't upset me.
As I pull into the long driveway that leads up to the house, a sensation of dread usurps the fleeting semblance of liberty I felt during this short trip.
Everything looks just as I left it, but something is off. My sharp instincts kick on high alert. Did she play me? Is she gone, after all? I speed along the rocky driveway, bumping up and down the uneven road. I step out of the cab, surveying the vast open space that holds the house and barn.
Fresh tire tracks line the grass in front of the house. I could follow them to see where they lead, but I have to check the house first to see if she's still here.
I walk into the front door and he's sitting there, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a gun pointed at me with the other.
This has been a slow suicide. Every action since the night I first snuck out and climbed that tree. Taking Vesper, allowing her to make me sloppy—that was just when I finally had the guts to pull the trigger.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Scoot, the name I’ve called him since as far back as I can remember. The nickname he used in his bid for Sheriff to make him sound more folksy. But most people know him as Sheriff Andrew Hunter-Ridgefield.
His scowl drips with disgust.
“What have you done?” he asks, his tone a mix of rage and despair.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“Oh wouldn't you like to know? Don't worry, the cavalry won't be rushing in here quite yet.”
I take stock of all the things I could bash his skull in with if it came to that. But I won't. As much as I loathe my brother, there's a sense of loyalty that undercuts all that bullshit.
“I called you a few weeks ago. Then again and again. You didn’t answer. You never just fucking answer,” he grunts through tight lips. “The morning after the barbeque, I saw Milly packing her bags and leaving. I watched it as I had my morning coffee. I thought, well maybe she's going out of town. But I'm a fucking cop, Sam. I couldn't help but notice the look on her face, like she'd seen the devil.” He rubs his face with both hands, temporarily removing the gun's aim on me. “But I didn't even think it had anything to do with you. Because you're my fucking brother, man. I let that shit cloud me. So I brushed it off after asking around. No one knew anything. But she's new. Maybe she just didn't feel like telling a bunch of strangers her business.”