Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
ATLAS
M y pulse pounds in my ears, keeping time with the frenetic rhythm of my heart, as I fly down my dad’s long driveway.
Disbelief, disgust, and a heaping serving of guilt all sit heavy on my shoulders, pressing down on me, their combined weight impairing my ability to think rationally.
My focus is a pinprick.
Finding Nora is the only thing that matters.
But where is she? Did he take her with him when he went wherever he’s at?
“His hunting cabin!” I jerk the wheel hard to the right, fishtailing out onto the main road.
Tires screech and horns blare, but I can’t stop.
There’s a running loop in my brain saying, find her, save her, fix this, over and over again and I’m helpless but to listen.
Maybe if I’d have listened to that part of myself years ago this would’ve never happened.
Maybe if I’d have voiced my concerns and suspicions when my mom died, Nora would be far, far away from the monster my dad is.
Denial has never served anyone well.
My thoughts spiral in a chaotic loop as I fly toward the cabin.
What if he’s there? What if he has her there?
What if she’s hurt? Or worse?
I’m not sure what to expect, much less how to prepare myself for the confrontation that may be to come, but there’s one thing I know beyond a shadow of a doubt—if she’s there with him and even a single hair on her head is harmed, I won’t hesitate to put him down like the rabid dog he is.
What kind of man hurts a woman—a child?
The question burns through me like acid in my veins.
But the one that follows is worse: what kind of man keeps his suspicions to himself for years?
Who’s the real monster, him or me?
Could I have prevented this if I’d have spoken up all those years ago?
“Fuck!” I pound my fist against the wheel, causing it to jerk in my grip.
Briefly, my tires leave the road, but I’m able to get the truck back under my control before any real damage can be done.
“What-ifs won’t solve anything,” I mutter to myself as I turn down the unmarked road that leads to our hunting plot.
“Just focus on the here and now. Figure out what needs to happen and handle that shit.”
I hold my breath as the cabin comes into view, only to let out a disappointed exhale when his SUV’s nowhere to be seen.
Still, I throw my truck into park and hop out to take a look around.
On silent feet, I creep around the rickety structure, listening and watching for any signs of life.
But everything is silent and still.
If the layer of dust covering the windows is anything to go by, no one has been here in a while.
But if I know anything, it’s that looks can be deceiving.
Which means I won’t be able to let this go until I check out the inside of the cabin—until I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s not here, chained up, or worse.
I try the front door first, but it’s locked up tight.
Defeat presses in on me from all sides.
I don’t know where my dad is, I don’t know where Nora is, and because I spent the last three years with my head up my ass, I don’t have the slightest idea of where to look.
“Oh, shit!” I hop down from the small porch and scramble around to the back of the cabin.
To the best of my knowledge, the back door doesn’t have a deadbolt.
Or at least it didn’t the last time I was here.
If that still holds true, it should be easy enough to get inside.
This time, I don’t bother being quiet; I’m far too anxious for soft steps.
A quick jiggle of the knob tells me that I’m right—there’s no deadbolt—and so, with a quick swipe of a card from my wallet, the door is open and I’m caught between hoping to find Nora and praying she’s far, far away from here.
Stale air greets me as I step into the house.
If it wasn’t clear from the smell alone, the sheets still covering the sparse furniture tell me no one’s been here in a long while.
I still do a quick walkthrough, finding each room as empty and untouched as the one before it.
They aren’t here, which means I’m back at square one.
“Where else could they be?” I ask as I retrace my steps, making sure there’s no sign of my visit as I head back for my truck.
Without knowing where else to look, I start for home, hoping like hell that Nora’s diary has something— anything —that will point me in the right direction.
DIARY ENTRY, AGE 15
Dear Diary,
Something’s wrong with Mama.
I don’t know what, but I know it like I know my own name.
She’s not right, but anytime I mention it, Mama and Rand act like I’m crazy.
I think they’re gaslighting me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not crazy.
There is something wrong with her, and I’m the only person who cares.
She’s been going downhill ever since she and Rand got together.
It’s like his presence alone sucks the life out of her, and now her health is going, too.
It started off with a stomachache.
“Just cramps,” she said.
But then the cramps turned to full-on nausea that hasn’t let up.
I’m talking weeks of feeling so sick and dizzy that she hasn’t been able to eat.
But you better believe she still cooks and serves Rand a feast each and every night.
He even makes her sit at the table with him while he prattles on and on about God knows what, not even caring that she’s literally wasting away before our very eyes.
I know I sound dramatic, but she’s lost enough weight that I’ve got more meat on my bones than she does—and that’s saying something, seeing as Dad always called me his bean pole.
Things have changed a lot between us these last few months, and not for the better, but she’s still my mom and I still love her…
Even if it feels like she doesn’t love me anymore.
Rand doesn’t allow me out of my room any time after seven, so I had to sneak into the kitchen to confront her while she was cleaning up.
She was swaying on her feet, struggling to load the dishwasher, so I took over doing it for her.
As I was scrubbing the pots and pans, I told her we should go to the doctor tomorrow to make sure she was okay, but she refused.
She swore up and down that she was fine, that it was probably just a virus, and that she’d be better in no time.
When I insisted she at least call the doctor, she scoffed.
I guess since she went to medical school, she knew everything about everything.
I wanted to press the issue, but she waved away my concerns and said she’d ask Rand to bring her some meds from the pharmacy where he works.
I know I’m only fifteen, but I didn’t know pharmacists could just bring home medicine.
I thought they needed a prescription too, but maybe not.
Stupidly, I let her easy dismissal of my concern get the better of me, and I slammed the dishwasher closed.
The next thing I know, Rand had me pinned to the fridge with a thick, meaty hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing tightly as he snarled like an angry dog.
He yelled and screamed and called me all sorts of names.
He told me I was ungrateful and worthless and a spoiled little bitch.
He ranted and raved about breaking my spirit.
I kept my eyes locked onto Mama the whole time, silent praying for her to make him stop, but she just sat there on her barstool with her head bowed and her eyes closed.
What kind of mother sits quietly while someone chokes and yells at her kid?
Sick or not, she’s a coward, and I told her as much when Rand finally removed his hand from my throat.
Rand didn’t like that, though.
He backhanded me and told me not to speak unless spoken to.
I know he wanted a reaction from me, for me to cry and beg for forgiveness, but I refused, which made him big mad.
He roared like a lion and then grabbed me by my hair and dragged me back to my room.
Before he slammed the door in my face, he said if he ever caught me out of my room after seven again, he’d lock me in the basement for a few days to teach me a lesson.
He’s a monster, and I hate him.
I mean it—I really, really hate him.
My biggest regret is not telling Ms. Maggie how awful he is when I was still allowed to see her, because now I’m trapped here with no way out.
Worried, Nora
Dear Diary,
This entry might be hard to read, but I have to write it down.
Back when Mama first gave you to me, she told me to put my pain to paper, so maybe if I let it all out—and I mean all of it—the crack of Rand’s palm and the heel of his boot won’t hurt as bad.
I’m pretty sure he broke two of my fingers and cracked my ribs tonight.
I was able to tape my fingers together pretty good, but I’m pretty sure my ribs are a lost cause.
I know from movies that I need to wrap them, but it hurts too much.
Moving in any kind of way hurts.
Even breathing hurts.
I guess I should start at the beginning though, huh?
Mama’s still sick. Sick-sick.
This so-called virus has gone on for months now, but she and Rand keep acting like everything’s fine and dandy.
You know, I never got the saying about “denial being more than a river in Egypt” until now.
Mama talks like she’s going to wake up better any day now, but she won’t.
I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever get better.
I’ve learned better than to ask, though.
That lesson came courtesy of two black eyes, a busted nose, and a split lip.
But what hurt even more than that was Mama’s indifference.
It sounds bad, but I think she doesn’t speak up when he hurts me for fear of him hurting her instead.
If she wasn’t sick, maybe we could leave.
Maybe we could run away and never look back.
But she is, and I can’t leave her here alone with him.
I won’t.
Mama hasn’t left her bed for almost two weeks now, which means it’s now my job to keep the house clean and to make all of Rand’s meals.
Meals I’m still not allowed to enjoy.
Today was hard, though.
He wanted a roast for dinner, and I don’t know how to make it.
I tried asking Mama, but she wouldn’t wake up.
I’m not allowed to use the internet, and Rand took my phone away months ago, so…
I winged it.
Which was apparently the wrong thing to do, because Rand was furious when dinner was not only late but inedible.
I watched from the doorway as he took his first bite, and before he could even swallow it, the entire plate was flying at my head.
It missed me by centimeters, shattering against the wall instead of my face.
I wanted to run back to the safety of my room, but my fear kept me rooted to the spot as Rand stomped his way across the room.
“Stupid, useless bitch,” he muttered before grabbing me by the back of my neck and shoving me down to my knees, hurting my fingers in the process.
He shouted for me to clean up the mess I made, and like the stupid girl I am, I asked him for the broom and dustpan.
“Use. Your. Fucking. Hands,” he snarled, punctuating each word with a hard kick.
Each time the toe of his boot met my body, pain like nothing I’d ever felt before exploded beneath my skin.
I sobbed and begged for him to stop, but he didn’t care.
It’s like my suffering brings him joy.
He’s demented. Twisted in a way I thought was only in books and on television.
But I did it. With aching fingers and throbbing ribs, I picked up every last shard from the floor, and then I dragged myself into the kitchen to get a rag and some spray to clean up the food.
Once the dining room was spotless, Rand tossed me into my room with a cookbook and locked me in, telling me to read it front to back.
And I will. I’ll read it cover to cover and memorize every recipe if it means a repeat of tonight never happens again. Aching, Nora