Chapter 4 Saint
Saint
The smell of pine leaks into my dreams, leaving me confused. For one disoriented second, I wonder if I’m at the church retreat center where Dad sometimes takes the youth group on weekend trips. A sudden rush of joy fills me from the inside out at the thought.
Log cabins, forest air, and the scent of summer and s’mores around the fire. I miss those days so much. I try to sink into the memory a little more, let it wrap around me like a warm blanket, but my subconscious demands I wake up.
Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
Panicking, I blink my eyes open, squinting against the brightness.
Did I sleep through my alarm again?
I groan internally and blink a couple more times, giving my vision a moment to adjust. I think maybe I’m seeing things because the ceiling above me is rough-hewn wood, with dark beams that crisscross overhead.
These aren’t the smooth white plaster walls of my bedroom.
A bubble of panic and confusion forms in my gut. Where am I?
Every muscle aches, like I was run over by a truck, and my mouth is drier than the cookies Mrs. Mills forces on us at church every Sunday. I need some water.
My brain is mush, my thoughts moving as slow as molasses. There’s a fog lingering in my head, thick and suffocating, making it hard for me to think, to remember, to understand what’s happening.
Where am I?
Turning, I try to get a better look at my surroundings and groan as the muscles in my neck protest. I’m still confused and unsure of where I am and how I got here. All I know is that I’m not at home or at a retreat with my father.
I lift my arms above my head to stretch, and one of them jerks to a stop mid-motion.
What the hell? I tilt my head back into the pillow and discover the source of my immobility—my right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bedframe.
This isn’t real. I try to tug my arm away, but that only makes the cuff dig into my skin. The cold steel is unyielding against my frantic pulls.
Why am I handcuffed to the bed?
Fear creeps up my throat. Relax. Calm down. I know panicking isn’t productive, but I can’t help it. I push through the fog, sorting my thoughts, searching through them like scattered puzzle pieces, trying to decipher how I got here.
The longer I think and come up with no answer, the heavier my chest feels.
I try to recall anything that might give me a clue before I turn outward to my surroundings, looking for the same.
My gaze drops to my chest and legs. My legs are bare, while my upper body is covered with an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt.
A quilt is wrapped and twisted at my feet.
Whose shirt is this?
I would never wear someone else’s shirt, especially a man’s. I sniff the collar, and the distinct masculine scent of leather and cedar hits me as hard as it did the first time I smelled him, when I was seventeen pressed against his chest while he carried me to his truck.
Calder.
The bare skin of my legs brushes against the flannel sheets, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, and I recognize the quilt that’s partially covering me.
How did it get here?
The sight of it makes my chest tighten with longing and fear. It’s one my mother made before she passed. She’d worked on the familiar stitching pattern for months while sitting in her favorite chair by the window.
Where am I? Why am I wearing Calder’s clothes?
The questions spiral out of control, each one more terrifying than the last.
This makes no sense. I would never wear his clothes.
Never let him undress me. The realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water, and panic twists in my gut.
What if I did something unforgivable—or worse, what if something was done to me?
The thought claws through me: that I might’ve lost my virginity to Calder, or worse, some stranger, while I was unconscious, powerless to stop them.
I press a trembling hand to my stomach, then lower—searching, checking, desperate for proof that nothing’s wrong. There’s no ache between my thighs, no sting or tenderness, no trace of blood that I can see.
The relief I feel makes me dizzy, but it’s short-lived.
Because if that didn’t happen, what the hell did?
I roll over carefully, and the chain on the handcuff rattles against the metal bedframe.
The movement gives me another angle on the space, and I discover a protein bar and a water bottle on the table beside the bed.
It’s almost like whoever brought me here—Calder himself?—knew that I would wake up thirsty and hungry. Think, Saint. Think about what you were doing. Fragmented memories, and images flash in my mind, playing like a horror movie I can’t turn off.
I was baking cookies, and the kitchen was warm and safe.
I had flour on my hands, and vanilla clung to the air.
Home. Safe.
And then…
There was a knock on the door. Sharp raps that cut through the quiet night.
I can’t breathe.
The image of the wounded man stumbling onto my porch, his blood seeping between his fingers, and the desperation in his eyes. It flashes in my mind all in a rush.
Blood. There was so much blood pooling on the weathered boards, spreading like spilled wine. He was there too. Calder Bishop. The devil in physical form, standing over the man’s crumpled body, a knife in his hand dripping red.
There’s a crack in my chest at the reminder of the way he looked at me with those icy-blue eyes, cold as a winter lake, empty of mercy or hesitation. They said everything he needed to say without speaking a single word.
I’m here because of him. He kidnapped me. Chased me through my own house like prey. He must’ve knocked me out when I begged him not to kill me. The memory of spots in my vision pops up, but it’s all I can remember until now.
“This isn’t real. It can’t be,” I whisper to the empty room. I give the handcuff another desperate tug, harder this time, ignoring the bite of metal against my wrist. “Please, please let this be a terrible nightmare.”
Except I know it’s not.
The ache in my wrist is too sharp, too real. The fear coursing through my veins like liquid fire is too visceral to be imagined. The danger I know I’m in presses down on my chest like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe.
This is real, all of it.
Why am I here? Where am I? What is he going to do with me?
His family owns land all over the county.
I could be hidden anywhere. However, it’s probably somewhere deep in the woods, a place where no one will be able to hear me scream.
I think of all the terrible things I’ve heard about the Bishops.
The rumors about murder, death, and crime.
Before, I found it hard to believe, but after last night.
.. seeing Calder with that knife in his hand.
The Bishops are dangerous, and I’m as good as dead.
That reminder only makes my thoughts run out of control like a wild horse.
What does he want with me?
Is he going to kill me? Keep me here forever? Torture me?
The possibilities are endless, each more terrifying as the options flip through my mind like an old slide show.
Logic tells me that if he went through all this trouble, he might think I’m more useful to him alive than dead.
Otherwise, why bring me all the way into the middle of nowhere and chain me up? Even logic can’t ease my worry.
Breathe. Relax.
I tell myself, forcing air into my lungs in slow, measured breaths.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, the way Mom taught me when I had panic attacks after she got sick.
I can’t let the dread of the situation sink its claws all the way into my spine, can’t let it paralyze me completely.
I might be naive and innocent, but I’m not stupid. I have to survive.
I will survive this.
My eyes burn with unshed tears that I blink away. I won’t let them fall. Won’t let myself become weak.
What’s crying going to do? It won’t get me out of here.
An image of my father pops into my head. His gentle face lined with worry and sadness. He needs me. He doesn’t have anyone else, only me. After Mom died, I became his whole world.
If I disappear, if I don’t come home, it will destroy him.
I need to find a way to escape, or to convince Calder to let me go.
His motives are unclear, but he has to have some type of plan. Right? I gather my thoughts, force myself to think methodically, and assess my surroundings.
The room I’m in is small, claustrophobic even, with the bed taking up a good portion of the space. The mattress is thin but not uncomfortable, the sheets rough but clean.
There’s a small end table beside the bed, scarred wood that’s seen better days. A wooden trunk is tucked against the end of the what, queen-sized bed?
A stone hearth is situated in the far corner of the room.
It’s cold and dark now, but I can see a few lingering embers.
Beside it sits a rudimentary kitchen area—a pump sink that looks like it came from another century, a small counter with a hot plate, some shelves with canned goods and supplies stacked haphazardly.
There’s even a tiny table with two mismatched chairs, one with a broken spindle. Across from the bed, partially hidden in shadow, I can see another door—probably a bathroom, maybe? Could he be in there right now, watching me from the darkness?
The handcuff is split across a chain, the chain being maybe three feet long at most. Even if I stretched all the way out, I wouldn’t be able to reach the bathroom.
I’m stuck here, tethered to this bed like an animal in a trap, unable to move freely, unable to access the most basic human dignity.
There are no pictures on the walls, no personal touches.
No trace of a life lived here, or a person who exists beyond the bare necessities.
This isn’t a home. It’s a hideout.