“I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Get in. The wind is picking up.”
I look down the road, but I can’t outpedal him. I couldn’t outrun him. Breathe, think. I get off my bicycle. He hoists my bike into the bed of the truck. He opens the passenger-side door. The hinge squeaks. I hesitate for a long moment, looking into the truck, down the road. Run. Don’t get into the car. No, don’t run. He’ll know. He’ll catch up. You’re still weak. He’s faster, stronger.
“Hurry up, get in,” he says.
I slide in and sit down, putting my backpack on the seat between us. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask me why I’m carrying a backpack.
He gets into the driver’s seat and presses a button to the left of the steering wheel, locking all the doors. I look forward through the windshield, the glass spotless, scoured by Jacob’s incessant compulsion to keep surfaces clean.
“Where did you go off to?” I ask on the bumpy drive home.
“Nancy needed help fixing a leak. Van’s AWOL.”
“He’s on a dive in Colombia,” I say.
Jacob glances sidelong at me. “He told you that? When?”
“I visited him on the boat, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. The guy gets around.”
“What about us? A trip to the mainland tomorrow?” I’m surprised I sound so casual.
“The ferry won’t be running for a while.”
“What?” My voice comes out high-pitched.
“Eighth breakdown this year. They need to replace that damned boat.”
“How does a ferry break down?” I keep my voice measured. But I want to throw the backpack at him, scream, jump out of the truck, run forever.
“Something about the drive motor. Tugboats towed the ferry into the harbor. It stalled a distance out. There were maybe a dozen people aboard at the time.”
“So it could be days.”
“At least.” He pulls into the garage. I could make a run for it now. And then what? He would come after me. He would be relentless. I’ve got to think. He turns off the engine as the garage door slams shut. We plunge into momentary darkness, and then the overhead light flickers on.
We’re inside the house now, taking off our shoes. My clothes hang heavily on my body, my skin clammy. I shove the backpack in the closet in the bedroom, take a deep breath, and lean back against the closed door. My heartbeat gallops. The floor creaks in the hallway. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door.
“You okay?” he says.
“I feel a little sick. I might be coming down with something.”
“I’ll make you some ginger tea. Good for digestion.” He goes into the kitchen.
Breathe, you can do this. Think. Jacob doesn’t want to kill me, or I would be dead by now. What he wants is to be my husband, to live this lie of a marriage. Until I can make my escape, I have to pretend to be Jacob’s loving wife.
“You look pale,” Jacob says, handing me tea.
“I need to rest. You’re too good to me.” I’m a basket case of fear and nerves. The wind howls across the island, rattling the windows.
“Do you have a fever?” His voice is cautious, worried. He touches my forehead. It’s all I can do not to slap his hand away. “You’re not too warm. You’re probably just tired.”
“Exhausted,” I say. “I got caught in the rain.”
“You make a habit of doing that. On our second date, we got caught in a storm. We hung out under an awning, then we went for dinner in Belltown.”
“Probably somewhere romantic.” No, I’m thinking, I was with Aiden that night, not you.
“Il Bistro on Pike Street, I think it was. Great food.”
Aiden and I ran into Il Bistro to get out of the rain. Later, I related the story to Jacob. “We’ll have to go back there,” I say.
“We will. For now, I’ll make you some soup.”
“I’m not all that hungry.” I get up on shaky legs. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
But I can’t sleep. I lie awake late into the night. Jacob’s rhythmic snores fill the room. He came in here to be with me again, and I did not protest. I did not want to arouse his suspicion. A faint glow emanates from the night-light in the hall. As I quietly lift myself out of bed, Jacob shifts . . . my heart jumps. Please don’t wake up.
He turns away from me, his breathing soft and regular. I tiptoe to the bathroom, close the door but not all the way. I don’t want to make a sound. I quietly open the bottle of sleeping pills and empty the contents into the pocket of my pajama bottoms. I slide the bottle into the back of the drawer. I open the door to the bedroom and gasp. Jacob is standing right there, his hand against the doorjamb.
“What are you doing?” he says, scratching his head.
“I had to pee. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’m glad you did.” His hands travel under my pajama top. I don’t move. His touch tortures me now.