Chapter Twenty - Two
I step back into the foyer and lock the front door.
Take a minute to breathe. I’m too on edge to be here, in this house, in this town.
My mind is swirling. I zeroed in on Doyle to the point I missed other cues.
I mentioned Doyle not only to Travis but to Rita and the investigator as well.
I was so sure. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my face.
Oh my God. What am I doing? I’ve gotten so tangled up in this, I’ve lost perspective.
I thought I had it all figured out. And last night .
. . my throat constricts. I was alone with Raymond, who just happened to find me on the levee.
Who lied to Travis about being in New Orleans.
Would a chair wedged under a broken door really deter an intruder? A killer. I don’t want to sit around, waiting to find out.
I’m googling hotels in Baton Rouge even before I reach the landing on the second floor.
There are several options. And Baton Rouge is close enough that I could get back if the investigator needs me.
Had Tom Bordelon said stay close or don’t leave town?
I convince myself he said stay close. Baton Rouge is close.
In the front bedroom, I cram my things into my duffel: toothbrush, skirts, heels.
I zip it shut and study the room. Nothing has been forgotten.
I pull the sheets off the bed and pile them up with the towels I used.
I can’t remember any cleaning instructions.
I’ll call Charles II and offer to pay for a service to come in and clean.
Add it on to the damage tab from the attic door.
A cold stone drops in my stomach. The attic.
I didn’t look in the attic when I came in.
Maybe Travis did. I caught up to him as he searched, but we stayed on the first floor.
I tell myself it’s okay. I’m being paranoid.
But still, I look to the bedside table for my gun.
Shit. I left it in the kitchen. Next to my keys.
I sling the straps of my duffel onto my shoulder and start heading for the hallway when I hear it. This time it’s not some indistinct creak or snap. It’s a very clear sound. Footsteps. And they’re coming from above me, from the attic.
I race for the stairs. The attic door squeaks open.
My heart thuds in my chest as I clamber down the front steps and run for my keys and gun.
Footsteps sound on the stairs behind me.
I smack my duffel into the doorframe as I turn into the kitchen, let out a moan, and drop it in the hall.
The chair is no longer under the doorknob; it’s at the kitchen table.
I lunge for the table, grab my keys, and—
My gun is gone.
“I’m gonna need you to not move.” The voice behind me is a slow drawl. Possibly drunk. Definitely one I recognize.
I don’t move.
“Now, real slow, turn around,” he says.
I turn and stare down the barrel of my own gun. And behind my gun is Doyle Arceneaux. His eyes watery. His hands shaking. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I swallow, keep my eyes on his. Breathe. “I know you don’t.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“Doyle, please lower the gun.”
He looks at it like he’s surprised to see it in his hand, hesitates a moment, then lowers it. I exhale. He glances at the kitchen door. “That chair didn’t work. I knew you had something that needed fixin’.”
“What are you doing here?” I rub the phone in my hand and wonder if there’s any way I can dial 9-1-1 without him noticing.
“I needed a place to hide. It’s not me.”
“I know,” I say even though I don’t know any such thing.
Just as the facts point in one direction, something happens to completely upend my theory.
Like Doyle showing up in my kitchen, holding my own gun on me.
My heart pounds against my ribs. I decide to gamble on a question.
Maybe it will get me the answers I need.
“Doyle, why’d you leave me that license plate? ”
His eyes widen. “Where is it?”
“I gave it to the police.”
His shoulders relax a little. “They know.”
“Doyle, all they know is your fingerprints are all over it.”
“I didn’t do anything!” he yells.
I hold up my hands. “Okay.”
He looks around the kitchen. He looks like a child who’s been caught doing something wrong.
“I was in one of the bedrooms earlier. Then I moved out to the shed.” He points through the open door with the gun.
“Then I saw Travis pull up and ran to the attic. He’s looking for me.
” He glances at my gun again. “I thought this might be handy.”
His voice is different from the last time I saw him. He sounds more like a child. Less threatening. Like he finally understands his toughness is actually bravado.
I keep my gaze on his, my voice steady. “You don’t need to hide anymore.”
He swings the gun in my direction. “Yes, I do!” His voice is shrill and defensive.
I keep my hands up. “Okay. It’s okay.”
Doyle’s breathing is shallow. He taps his leg with my gun; then his eyes widen as he notices the phone in my hand for the first time. I take a step back. He jumps for me so quickly I fall backward, and he snatches the phone from my grip. The kitchen door clicks open.
We both stare at it as he puts my phone in his back pocket. Every fight-or-flight instinct in my body screams run. Doyle may not plan to intentionally hurt me, but his voice tells me he’s afraid. Desperate. That’s a dangerous combination. I wheel around and race for the open door.
I burst into the backyard, but Doyle gains on me fast.
“Stop,” he yells.
I keep running. I hear his breath close to me; then I feel him grab my hair. My neck jerks back, and I scream. Despite his skinny frame, he’s strong. Stronger than me. I fight and kick at him, but he gets on top of me and straddles my chest. I scream again; he slaps me, open palmed. “Shut up!”
I’m stunned for a moment. My cheek burns.
Then my adrenaline kicks into overtime, and I twist an arm free and claw for his eyes, but I can only reach his cheek.
My nails dig into his face and leave red, bleeding marks as I drag them across his skin.
He cries out like an animal and raises the gun.
I see the butt of it coming for my head.
That’s the last thing I see.
I come to with a blinding headache. Something sticky covers my right cheek.
I try to touch it but realize my hands are tied behind my back.
I smell cabbage and body odor, and as my eyes adjust, I wish I was still unconscious.
I’m on my side on a small bed in a room with bare walls and one window. The window is dark.
I’m in the Arceneauxes’ home. In Emily’s room.
In her bed, under her sheets, with a broken, one-eyed baby doll tucked in next to my head.
I moan a low throaty sound as I move away from the doll.
My breathing is stilted, and I work to keep my heart rate under control.
Hyperventilating will not help here, but I’m having a hard time keeping my head clear.
I remember being at the house, in the kitchen. Doyle with the gun. Me, running.
Another moan escapes as I manage to push myself into a seated position.
My head swims. My arms burn. I try to judge the time from the night sky through the window, but the darkness tells me nothing.
A ripped piece of paper, however, with scrawled handwriting tells me plenty.
I want to help you. This is for your own good.
I cannot be here. Doyle may or may not be guilty of the heinous crimes at the bayou, but now, he’s definitely guilty of kidnapping. And although, in his warped mind, he seems to believe he’s helping me, there’s no way being in this room is helpful.
When I stand up, black dots dance across my vision. I sway but somehow stay upright. I walk to the door and turn around so I can try the knob. It’s locked. I release a heavy breath, thinking of the lock on the outside of the door. I inhale and exhale slowly. Panicking is not an option.
I scan the room. Eddie’s metal dolls are lined up against the opposite wall; most look like the ones he gave me.
One looks half-done, like he’s still working on it.
Some look sharp. I move my feet across the dusty floor.
That’s when I notice I’m not wearing any shoes.
I wonder where the boots are I had on earlier but decide it makes no difference.
I have much bigger things to worry about.
Then I notice my clothes. I’m no longer wearing the pants I had on earlier either.
I’m not wearing pants at all. I’m only wearing my underwear and a huge gold T-shirt with LSU written on the front in purple.
Eddie’s T-shirt. I remember it from when I saw him on the levee with Doyle.
I cringe at the thought of Doyle changing me into this, but I won’t dwell on it. I have to get moving.
I walk over to the metal dolls, sit on the floor next to them, and find what looks like the sharpest one. I turn my back to it and grab it in one hand and try to manipulate it to cut at what’s binding my wrists. But I can’t get my hand to bend in the right way, and I end up dropping it.
“Shit.”
I feel for it behind my back and, in the process, realize the knot does not feel as tight as I thought.
If I work it hard enough, I might be able to slip my hands out.
I start slowly rubbing my hands together.
The friction from the rope burns my wrists, but I keep rubbing, keep pushing to make the hole bigger.
My hand slips a little, and I cry out. I keep my eyes on the door. The Arceneaux house is quiet.