Chapter 82
eighty-two
MAVERICK
I don’t know how many times I have to wake up chained to this damn bed before I realize that it’s not just a bad dream. This is real. My reality is that I’m trapped in a weird acid trip version of my childhood home with a guy that definitely thinks I belong to him.
I pull on the chains even though I know it will get me absolutely nowhere.
Trying to remember how I went from eating breakfast to being chained to the bed makes my head throb painfully.
Patrick said something. I know whatever it was must have been important, but I can’t make myself remember.
Probably because the bastard drugged me. Again.
“Good morning, doll,” Patrick sing-songs as he practically skips into the room.
I look him up and down for the first time.
I’d been trying previously to figure a way out, so he was only ever in my periphery.
He’s in one of his horror movie shirts. This one has three rows of cinema serial killer masks.
His orange sweatpants have reddish-brown stains that I try not to think too hard about.
His feet are bare, revealing hairy toes.
I look up at his face and try not to cringe.
He’s grown his hair into some sort of mullet to cover a bald spot.
“Let’s get you up and ready! We’ve got a big day ahead of us!” I manage to contain my groan. A big day of what? More drugging? Can’t wait.
Patrick’s idea of a “big day” is showing me his knife collection in his knife room.
He’s been unabashedly showing them off while sporting an unfortunate-sized boner.
I didn’t even notice it until he told me to sit in the only chair in the room, which, thankfully, is a very comfortable leather recliner, and I came face to face with it.
It might explain why he’s such an angry man.
“This one’s Monica,” Patrick says, holding a mean-looking dagger. “And her twin, Rita.”
“Oh. They’re . . . beautiful?” I tell him when I realize he’s waiting for a reaction from me.
This is definitely not the room to piss him off in.
He makes his way down the first wall, introducing me to Sandra, Mary, Tina, and Angela.
The back wall is made up of swords that I usually only see at Renaissance fairs.
They’re all named Jessica for some reason.
I’m not stupid enough to question it. Just oohing and aahing in the correct spots.
“This one,” Patrick says, choking up. “This one is my baby. She’s been with me through it all.
” He holds up the most basic knife my mind could have conjured.
It has a worn wooden handle and a blade that’s about as long as my middle finger.
I think if I looked up the word “knife,” this is the picture it would show me.
All the others had intricate handles or fancy carvings on the blades.
This one is the kind every dad has in their tackle box.
“What’s her name?” I ask because I can’t help myself.
“Pamela.”
“Why is she your favorite?” I don’t want to know the answer, but the man is cuddling the thing to his face like it’s a puppy and staring me down. It’s pretty clear he wants to have a conversation, and by the smile that breaks out on his face at the question, I’m at least doing a good job of it.
“She was my first,” he says, but his smile quickly disappears. “Well, she was one of my firsts.”
“Did something happen?” I ask after another awkward pause with him just staring at me and waiting.
“She had a twin, too. Her name was Erica, but I lost her that night.” Patrick is crying. Over a knife. I have no idea what to do that won’t have him using Pamela to slit my throat.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I manage to keep my voice even, but everything he said yesterday comes rushing back.
That night.
It was all because of him.
He made everything happen.
“You knew you had Gianna in that barn,” I blurt. “You knew she wasn’t Noelle.”
“Of course I knew!” Patrick screams, getting far too close to my face with Pamela. “Eva was going to marry you off to her! Said I could have you whenever I wanted on the side. I’m no one’s side piece!”
He literally started everything. Gianna’s murder and Ezra’s witnessing of it led to this, to now.
While I never underestimated Patrick’s ability to murder, I’ve severely underestimated his IQ.
We’ve been assuming that Patrick has been able to get away with everything because Eva had money, power, and influence.
And while I’m sure that was a huge part of it, Patrick is clever all on his own.
“How did you find me?”
“You bought a fucking television with your credit card. It’s like you wanted me to find you.
I planted pictures of Jo everywhere, thinking your people would surround her and leave you vulnerable.
Turns out I didn’t give them enough credit.
” Patrick smiles, running the dull side of Pamela down my cheek.
“You wanted me to find you, didn’t you, doll? ”
Fuck! The television. I wasn’t even thinking. I was just in a happy bubble with Jo and Ezra. Who are potentially still locked in the basement. If they’re even alive. I swallow around the lump in my throat at the thought of them being gone.
“Where are Ezra and Jo?” I ask, ignoring him. I need to know. If they’re gone from this Earth, then I want to go with them. There’s nothing left for me here without them.
“You’ll never see them again,” Patrick growls in my face. Pain flares in my temple, and I feel the familiar pull of being knocked unconscious.
Fucking Pamela.