Chapter 4 Saint #2
Somewhere no one knows exists, where no one will find me.
My heart lurches in my chest, panic mounting all over again like a wave I can’t outrun.
I had learned a number of things growing up—CPR from the community center, sewing from my mother, how to grow vegetables in our church garden, and how to comfort the grieving and pray with the sick.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for this.
For being at the mercy of a man who kills without hesitation.
The man on my porch isn’t the one I’d imagined—the one with quiet eyes and a soft touch, who once carried me into the hospital and sat with me when they set the bone or helped strangers without expecting a thanks.
Those glimpses of goodness don’t fit the monster I saw last night.
Calder is the devil in disguise—like Lucifer, an angel of light hiding in plain sight.
My heart refused to see it, clinging to those fleeting moments in the hospital, and on my birthday. Now I’m cursing myself for kissing him, or ever thinking there was a good person inside him.
My father said Jesus forgives all, and maybe he would forgive Calder, but I never will.
I rest my back against the bedframe, and the cold seeps into my bones through the thin cotton. It’s cold, and it’s only going to get colder.
My only hope is that Calder returns soon, and when he does, I’ll have some plan or way to talk myself out of this. At the edge of the bed, I spot a metal bucket.
What could that be for? It hits me then. It’s for me. I can’t reach the bathroom so I’ll have to use the bucket if I need to go.
The humiliation of it burns a hole of shame in my stomach.
My eyes dart away from the bucket, like if I don’t look at it, it might disappear.
That’s when I see a piece of paper on the edge of the bedside table with writing on it, the letters dark and bold against white.
Leaning forward as far as the handcuff will allow, I squint and read the small words scrawled in masculine handwriting.
I’ll be back by dark. Use the bucket if you gotta. -C
The note is curt, practical, and completely devoid of emotion.
Like he’s leaving instructions for feeding a dog, not holding a human being captive. I stare at those words until they blur, trying to extract meaning beyond the obvious.
I don’t know if I should take it as a warning of what’s to come or a sign of God that everything is going to be okay.
That he didn’t just drop me off somewhere and leave me to rot.
I’ve always clung to my faith like a lifeline, to my belief that if I give it to God he will fix it, that he has a plan even when I can’t see it.
He was always there for me to lean on, a constant presence when everything else fell apart.
After we lost Momma, and the house felt too empty and quiet, when my daddy had his cancer scare a couple of years before that, and we thought we might lose him too.
There was even a time when we were close to losing everything, even the church, drowning in debt we couldn’t pay, and somehow, God came through for us.
Maybe I needed to let my faith guide me now.
Trust that there’s a reason I’m still alive, a purpose to this suffering. Calder hasn’t hurt me, not really. Yes, he’d terrified me, chased me, knocked me out, and chained me here like an animal—but he hasn’t beaten me or raped me.
He’s a terrible man, capable of doing horrible things.
Things I’ve witnessed with my own eyes, but he hasn’t done anything to me, not yet.
Not even when he had the opportunity, and I was completely helpless. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Some small mercy, some hesitation, suggesting he’s not completely lost.
The only weapons in my arsenal are words, faith, and the desperate hope that the man who helped me to the hospital when I was seventeen is still somewhere inside the killer who stood on my porch last night.
The alternative is something I refuse to even think about—that I’ll die here, that no one will ever find me, that my father will spend the rest of his life wondering what happened to his little girl.
Drawing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs the best I can with one wrist still chained, and rest my cheek against my knee.
The position is awkward, and uncomfortable, but somehow comforting in its familiarity.
I used to sit like this as a child when I was scared or sad, making myself small and compact.
It felt like I could protect myself just by taking up less space.
I focus on my breathing, letting the rhythm steady me, and try not to think about what might happen next.
Try not to imagine Calder walking through that door when darkness falls.
I think about my momma instead, let her memory wash over me like cool water.
Her soft voice and gentle hands, the way she hummed while she cooked, the patience she had when teaching me to sew or bake or pray. What she always said to me when I was trying to find a solution to a problem but there was nothing that made sense, when I was backed into a corner with no way out.
“Give it to God, Saintlyn. Let him lead you in the direction you need to go. He sees the path even when we can’t. Trust Him.”
Her soft voice is so clear in my head I almost think she’s here in the room with me, sitting on the edge of the bed the way she used to when I was sick or scared.
I can almost smell her perfume, that light floral scent she always wore.
I can almost feel her hand on my forehead.
My longing for her is so intense it’s a physical ache in my chest.
“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” She whispers.
That’s all the comfort I need. I start to pray, pouring every ounce of fear and hope and desperation into the words, speaking them softly into the quiet cabin.
Praying for an answer, for protection, for a miracle I’m not sure I deserve. I tug my mother’s quilt up over me, soaking in the warmth.
“Heavenly Father, deliver me from evil. Protect me the way Momma always said you would. I don’t understand why this is happening, why You brought me here, but you see everything, and you know my heart.
Please, give me courage to face whatever comes.
Please, keep me safe from harm. Please, don’t let this be the end of me.
And if it is...” My voice breaks, tears finally spilling over and tracking down my cheeks.
“If it is, please take care of my daddy. Don’t let him suffer.
Let him know I loved him. Let him know I never stopped believing. Amen.”
The word hangs in the air, and then there’s only silence and the distant sound of wind through pine trees.
I’m alone and chained, waiting for the darkness to return.
Waiting for him to return.