Chapter Three
Three
Margot
Present Day
Darkness clings to my face on every inhale like a cosmic plastic bag over my head.
Lightning shatters the sky outside. The living room exists for half a heartbeat, then plunges into nothingness.
There’s no little blue light from the router perched on the built-in entertainment center, no comforting glow from the air freshener in the outlet beside the bookshelf.
Power’s out, and for some reason the generator hasn’t turned on.
Which means no Wi-Fi, which means I’m responsible for distracting myself from the nightmare that woke me some time ago.
Yippee.
Curled on a leather couch that doesn’t belong to me, Gremlin tucked behind my knees, I could be anywhere in the dark. In Claire and Shane’s living room, or the bottom of the ocean, lost in a trench.
Or in hell.
For years, I listened to Nicholas preach that hell is a personalized experience, a custom build meeting whatever specifications will distress its patron most. If he’s correct, mine will be dark. Pitch-black. Impermeable night that swallows me up.
For you were once darkness, but now you are—
No.
Shaking my head like I can shake my ex-husband’s religious teachings out of my brain through my ears, I reach to scratch under Gremlin’s collar.
She grunts in her sleep. At least someone’s cozy.
Dozing off on the couch wasn’t the plan when I sat down earlier.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a nightmare as vivid as tonight’s.
Logically, I know the back door didn’t open.
Nicholas didn’t creep through the house.
He didn’t whisper, What god has joined together, let not man separate, Manna, in my ear.
His spearmint-scented breath didn’t tickle my cheek as the pet name sent icicles shooting through my limbs.
It felt like it, though, the dream so visceral it could have been the night years ago when he actually did.
My subconscious is uncreative, replaying unpleasant memories instead of conjuring new fears.
My scare over the text earlier must have been the psychic equivalent of summoning ghosts of relationships past.
Enough.
Now is not the time to skip down memory lane.
During last week’s call, I talked to my therapist about the growing sense of unease I’ve felt since Nicholas was released from prison.
How I feel myself slipping back into hypervigilance, old patterns taking over.
She’s been helping me work through accepting that there will likely always be things that activate me, and having my toolbox ready to deal with them.
Sheryl is being kind with toolbox—my therapy tools could fill a shed.
Right now, I choose distraction. Mentally reviewing my to-do list makes my heart rate slow. The rain on the roof no longer sounds threatening. I might curl up under the blanket again and go back to sleep. I’ll call someone to see about the generator in the morning—
A thud. Directly above me. In the primary bedroom.
I stare at the ceiling—not that I can see anything.
I’m imagining it.
There’s not—
Hesitant footsteps cross the floor. Faint enough that I lose them altogether.
Real.
That’s real.
Fumbling in the crevice of the couch, I find my phone.
It’s a little after 10:00 p.m. No signal.
Why didn’t I upgrade my phone to one with satellite?
Fear thrashes in my chest, a wild bird trapped in a garage.
It flings itself against my ribs, preferring the neck-breaking chaos of attempting escape over calm containment.
It wants out. What might happen if it gets out scares me as much as the emotion itself.
No power, no signal, and the house is at least forty-five minutes from the nearest town.
Panic lurks deep in my brain, floating up, up, up to consume me.
I scramble for every trick I’ve learned in therapy.
The voice of logic insists the sound was the wind, the house settling, my imagination.
Nicholas isn’t here, in Claire and Shane’s house.
This is a trauma response, the equivalent of thinking hoofbeats automatically equal a zebra because I’ve been kicked in the face a few dozen times by one.
Another thump above me sounds, as if asking, Are you sure about that?
Excruciatingly slow, sweat trickles between my breasts as the past shrouds the present.
I’m not in Maine anymore. I’m in Texas, in the split-level ranch I share with Nicholas, wondering if calling 911 is overreacting.
Sitting behind a locked bedroom door with a dresser pushed against it as he does something out in the house.
We’re separated. He isn’t supposed to be here, but the police don’t think a restraining order is necessary.
Of course they don’t. Nicholas Ammon, beloved televangelist and man of the cloth, would never, ever be a danger—
Stop.
Breathe.
I’m trying, but my heart’s a lump in my throat.
I can’t remember what my lungs are for. The footsteps are moving again upstairs.
A door creaks like the old house is giving up the intruder.
Here he is. Come and get him. I let logic slip through my fingers.
No one is driving this far out for a random burglary.
It’s Nicholas; it has to be. I’m not going to do the smart thing.
I won’t take Gremlin, drive until I get signal, and call the police.
There are too many variables in that scenario.
What if whatever tree likely took out the power line is blocking the road? What if there’s flooding?
What if I could never have to worry about Nicholas ever again?
Using my phone’s flashlight, I creep into the kitchen.
The bread knife I used at lunch rests on a dish towel by the sink, but there’s a better knife in my purse.
A hunting knife with a fixed, drop-point blade.
Good for gutting, or so said the man at the sporting goods store when he sold it to me, skinning too, if you have a steady hand.
My hands tremble as I pull the sheathed knife from my purse.
I consider the can of mace that shares the same just-in-case pocket in my bag but decide against it in favor of the stun gun.
Pepper spray doesn’t seem smart indoors.
Gremlin’s leash is coiled beside my bag.
I grab it on a whim, looping like a belt around my waist. I’d give anything for pockets.
Unfortunately, I’m only wearing an oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts that are almost small enough to pass as underwear.
Trying not to think about my state of near undress, I climb the stairs with my phone’s flashlight as low as it will go.
At the second floor, I turn it off. It’s a big house, plenty of places for him to look for me.
The primary bedroom is to my left, a hallway with more bedrooms and an office-slash-library to my right. A light shines from one of the rooms. A form crosses the hall, moving from one bedroom to the next. I need to sneak up behind him and…
Zap him?
Stab him?
Choke him with the dog leash?
Fear ruffles its feathers, a gentle warning, but the panic from earlier is gone.
I’m scared to go after him, but not being able to see him was worse.
This control—no matter how tenuous—makes the situation tolerable.
Nicholas leaves the room, turning away from me and heading to the next.
Rain rails against the windows as I follow.
Unexpected calm settles bone deep. My brain is quiet.
The self-defense classes that strained my budget at the time feel like a good investment now.
I’ve run through dozens of possibilities in my head of what might happen if Nicholas came for me.
This one is unique, but only because I have the element of surprise.
Much better.
Clueless, he slips into the next room. I press myself along the wall outside it.
My mind is spinning, putting pieces together.
Through the wall, I hear him open the closet door and release an annoyed exhale.
Then he’s coming out, walking to the last room.
My room, at least while I’m here. He hesitates at the partially open door, knocking on the frame twice.
What is this?
Gremlin yips from downstairs. Nicholas starts to turn. I bolt, barely avoiding his flashlight’s beam as I tackle him. My momentum crashes us through the door and into my room.
“What the fuck?” He sounds more alarmed than anyone breaking and entering has a right to. His bulky, damp sweatshirt and jeans aren’t ideal for zapping. Shit. He’s going to spin and grab me before I can stun him.
Skin.
I need skin.
Yanking up the hem of his sweatshirt, I shove the stun gun’s conductors against his side and press the button.
Satisfaction surges through me as electricity surges through him, making his limbs jerk.
There’s a strangled sound, a groan or moan gone wrong.
My ears prick the way Gremlin’s do when I shake her food bowl.
Uh-oh.
Should that sound so good?
He hits the floor hard enough for me to question if he’s knocked out.
“Wh-what th—”
Nope.
Dropping to the ground, I zap him again before abandoning the stun gun for the dog leash.
His flashlight went rolling. It rests alongside my bed, the beam throwing enough light for me to see what I’m doing.
I’m straddling him, tying his hands tight behind his back with the thin, hot pink daisy-patterned leash. I wish I had something sturdier.
At least he doesn’t know it’s a dog leash.
He groans again, shifting incrementally. “Margot, it—”
How. Dare. You.