25. Rosie
“Where are we?” I beg for an answer as the vehicle finally slows.
I’ve been blindfolded, my hands tied behind my back with some kind of rope. I came to as they shoved me into the van. Rain is pouring down outside, railing on the windows.
The water immediately streams in with the heavy, whirring drag of a van door sliding open and wets my shoulders, arms, and upper thighs. He ushers me out and forces me into a run with his hand on my back. He yanks me up three steps before banging loudly on a wooden door.
The sound of dead bolts opening and locks clicking is followed by the handle finally twisting and the door swinging open. He hauls me inside. It smells musty and old. Cold fear floods my system as my senses seem to fully return after whatever sedative they gave me. He pulls my blindfold off, and my eyes adjust to the dim light of what appears to be an old hunting cabin. The man is still wearing a mask, but it’s only him and me. Before he has time to speak or tie me to a chair, I raise my foot up and stomp down on his as hard as I can.
“Ouch!” he howls.
I turn and sprint out the door. The rain pelts my face as I run off the porch, smacking into a hard chest.
This man is bigger than the other one. He latches on to me, paralyzing me with his unmoving grip.
“Going somewhere, little girl?” His voice is thick with a Southern accent.
I kick against him, fighting for my life. He’s immovable as he drags me through the mud and the onslaught of raindrops. I let out a piercing scream, hoping someone can hear me through the downpour and the sound of thunder.
All my nerve endings are highly sensitive as the man shoves me through the door, his grip so tight that my shoulders feel like they’re bruising. The first man steps toward me, a syringe in his hand. His eyes are dark with rage.
“I told him we needed a stronger sedative,” he mumbles, louder than he’s spoken before.
That voice … why does it sound familiar?
I kick him again, this time right in the balls. He yelps in pain. The man holding my shoulders doesn’t budge, patiently waiting on the other one. He finally stands back upright, eyes crazy with an unhinged anger.
“You know, you’ve always been a little cunt,” he groans, still keeping his voice low.
Where have I heard this man speak before?
He shifts the syringe to his left hand before swinging his right elbow from the side and gouging me in the eye with it.
I scream in agony, but there’s no way for me to fight back, to shield myself from the next blow. Instead of another shot at my face, my arm stings as he sticks me with the syringe, emptying the cold liquid into my blood. Immediately, my body feels weak, and I slack against him. I try to look around the cabin for any clues about where I am, but my vision goes dark before I can take note of anything.
My achinghead is the first thing I’m aware of as I come to. My shoulders are tender, like maybe I fell off of a horse or did a terrible Pilates class with Dolly. My eyelids are heavy, but I force them open. My mouth feels like it’s full of dry cotton balls.
I need water.
The wooden rafters of the ceiling are unfamiliar. I blink through the fogginess of my brain and turn my head to look around the room.
The cabin.
The masked men.
One had a thick accent. The other one’s voice was vaguely familiar.
The memories flood back as a wave of nausea overwhelms my senses. I roll over on the springy mattress, dry-heaving. My stomach must be completely empty because nothing comes out. Before I have time to catch my breath, I hear the door opening.
I hide my face in the scratchy sheets, pretending to be asleep again. My body shakes as I feel them drawing near, flooding my system with palpable terror. Heavy footsteps come through the door, and the frame is filled with a bald, broad-shouldered man with sharp facial features. Even with his mask off, I don’t recognize him.
“Get up. I need a recording.” The backwoods Southern accent of the man sends shivers down my spine.
At least he’s not the one who elbowed me in the face.
I slowly turn to face him. He’s standing there with no emotion in his expression as he holds out a plastic cup of water. My parched lips force me into a sitting position. My entire body aches as I reach for the cup. I drain the entire thing, not realizing how thirsty I was until it’s gone, and I wish there were more.
The man sits down at the foot of the bed, pulling out his phone and a newspaper. He tosses the paper toward me.
“I need you to hold this up and tell me your name. You’re asking for a twenty-million-dollar ransom.”
I gape at him. Who? Who are you asking for twenty million dollars?
My aching shoulders and the smarting eye, which I’m sure is now black and blue, force me to keep my mouth shut. I grab the paper, holding it up in front of my chest. He holds the phone up, aiming the camera at my face.
I will not cry.
He nods.
“My name is Rosie Lou Dixon. I’m … being held captive. They’re saying they won’t let me go unless you pay them twenty million dollars.”
The man taps the screen, lowering the phone before he stands up from the bed and walks back out of the room without a word, closing the door with a click. I collapse on the bed, exhaling out a sob.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening. Suddenly, I find myself hoping that Holden is the one to find me. For some reason, I have no doubt that he would burst in here with guns blazing and fists swinging. He would save me from the monsters holding me captive even though he himself hates me. He might even kill them both.
Something in him needs me to survive. He can’t sleep unless I’m lying beside him. I have no idea why or how he got to that place, but I’m growing accustomed to it. The feeling of being needed by someone so dark and mysterious is addictive.
“Please find me,” I whisper into the gray room, hoping that wherever he is, he can sense that I need him.
I drift in and out of sleep over the next few hours. I wonder what time it is. The room I’m in only has a bed, a nightstand with a lamp on it, and a closet with an extra pillow in it.
The lone window has been boarded up with plywood. I can’t see if there’s any light behind it to tell me what time it is.
I feel like I’m about to piss myself before I start banging on the door. “Hey! Hello? Is anyone out there?”
Silence meets my ears. I exhale, searching around the room for any possible solution to my bodily needs. Metal scraping against metal on the exterior of the door meets my ears. I step back as someone pulls it open.
The bald man is standing there, a blank expression on his face.
“I need to pee,” I mumble.
“You try to run, I’ll give you another black eye,” he says.
I nod. “I won’t. Please just let me use the bathroom.”
He reaches out and grabs my wrist, gripping it so tight that I wince. He jerks me behind him, through the dark hallway. We stop at a narrow door. He opens it, shoving me inside.
“Five minutes.”
I rush toward the toilet, pulling down my leggings and relieving my aching bladder. I sigh in relief. I look up, jolting as I meet my own eyes in the mirror.
My mascara is running down my cheeks in streaks. My left eye is black and blue with a stain of dried blood in the upper-left corner. I can feel a split in the skin of my brow. My hair is a tangled mess of matted copper-red curls. My once pale pink T-shirt is stained with mud and the blood from my eye.
I’ve never looked worse.
The urge to cry overwhelms me. A whimper escapes my lips as a shudder runs through my entire body.
You will survive this. You’re not going to die in this cabin.
I finish my business and move toward the sink to wash my hands. There’s no soap or hand towel, but the thirst and hunger in my belly has me dipping my head down to fill my mouth with water. I gulp it down ravenously until the door springs open.
“That’s enough. Back to your room,” he grunts, grabbing my forearm with another bruising grip.
“I got it! No need to fucking bruise me every time.”
He’s unfazed, jerking me down the hall and shoving me so hard into the room that I stumble and fall onto the wooden floor. He slams the door before the metal clicks, latching whatever exterior lock he has on it.
I stay on the floor, my body too weak from hunger, anxiety, and the aftereffects of the sedative to move.
“You’ll be okay. You’ll survive this. Next time he opens the door, you’ll run,” I whisper to myself before dissolving into uncontrollable tears laced with hopelessness.
I’m not sure I even believe myself at this point, but the desperation inside me might be enough to drum up the courage to do it and risk another physical attack.
I have to make it out alive. I have to.