Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ariana
I’d been through my fair share of nerve-wracking dinners. Hell, I was married to a man who turned meals into mind games, each bite a test, each glass of wine laced with unspoken threats. But this dinner?
This one took the fucking cake.
I forced myself not to fidget. Not to let my gaze linger too long on Henry’s plate. But I couldn’t help it. My heart pounded behind my ribs like it might claw its way out as one question floated through my mind. Would my plan work?
Or had he already figured it out?
Was he toying with me now? Playing with me before going in for the kill?
I could feel the weight of his gaze, even when I wasn’t looking. Could sense his distrust, especially after how jumpy I was earlier.
That was why I let him fuck me on the counter when it was the last thing I wanted.
At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.
When I felt his body against mine, for a brief second, I wondered if maybe I was wrong about him. If maybe there was some other explanation for everything.
But I’d seen the photo. Read the messages.
I wasn’t wrong about this.
I needed to get away. Tonight.
I only prayed the crushed up pills I’d hidden in his serving of mashed potatoes were enough.
He was built like a damn tank — tall, broad, the kind of man who could weather a fall down a ravine and crawl his way out.
What if it didn’t work?
What if the dosage wasn’t strong enough?
What if it made him suspicious instead of sleepy?
I sliced my green beans with robotic precision, the metal fork and knife scraping faintly against the ceramic plate. Tiny sounds. Normal sounds. But to me, they were thunderous.
Just breathe. Smile. Play the part. I’d done this before. Worn the mask. Said the right words. Painted on the perfect expression.
I could do it again.
“What kind of trouble did you get into this afternoon?”
Henry’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts, and I flinched, nearly knocking my fork to the floor. I caught it, forcing a breathy laugh that was too high-pitched. Too…rehearsed.
My skin heated as his eyes seared into me, dissecting me with an unnervingly quiet scrutiny. I needed to get my shit together. This would most likely be my one and only chance to escape. I couldn’t fuck it up.
“Nothing, really,” I said lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Read a little. Changed the sheets on the bed and washed the dirty ones. Although, I have a feeling I may have to change them again tomorrow with the way you can’t keep your hands off me.
” I gave him a playful smile I hoped would ease his concern.
“If memory serves, you’re equally to blame for those dirty sheets.”
“Perhaps.” I sipped my wine, barely wetting my lips. I couldn’t afford to dull my instincts. Not tonight.
He picked up his fork and took a bite of chicken as he talked about the weather, how he needed to check the backup generator because of some storm heading this way in a few days.
I nodded. Cut another piece of chicken and chewed without tasting it. Responded where one was required.
But my focus remained on that untouched mound of mashed potatoes.
Why wasn’t he eating them?
Did he not like them?
Was that even possible?
Henry didn’t seem like a picky eater. He’d been in the military. His father raised him to live off the land and eat everything put in front of him. He’d probably eaten things that didn’t even qualify as food.
Unless he knew what I was up to and was simply just playing along.
Finally, he dipped his fork into the creamy pile and scooped up a bite. I held my breath, my heart hammering in my chest as I watched him.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted with a quick wave of my hand. “Just...thinking about something else.”
He watched me for a painfully long moment. I forced myself to take a bite of my own mashed potatoes, fighting to keep my hand steady.
Seconds ticked by, each one feeling longer than the last. Finally, he brought his fork up to his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Then frowned.
My stomach plummeted as panic raced through me. Could he taste the pills? Was the flavor too strong? I thought the mashed potatoes would mask any texture issues.
“These taste just like the ones my mother used to make,” he finally said.
“Really?” I did my best to hide my relief.
“Yeah.” His eyes drifted away for a second. “She used to make mashed potatoes every Sunday. Usually with a roast or turkey. She’d let Spencer and me help mash them. Said we were so much stronger than she was, even when we were little. It was one of his favorite things to do.”
Something in his voice changed, and I latched onto it.
“What was he like? Your brother?”
He pinched his lips together, and I immediately regretted asking. Maybe this was too personal. Too soon.
“He loved books,” he said after a beat. “Mom, too. I was always more athletic. Not Spencer. He preferred books to people. Peter Pan . The Little Prince .”
“ The Secret Garden ?” I pressed.
He lifted his gaze toward mine and hesitated. I half expected for him to put an end to this conversation. But he didn’t.
“That was one of his favorites. Mom, too.” A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest as a nostalgic gleam crossed his eyes. “But he didn’t read as much once we came up here. Didn’t really have time for it anymore.”
I swallowed hard, but couldn’t let this affect my plan. I needed him to keep eating. So I steered the conversation back to happier memories. “What other things did you do with your brother?”
His eyes lit up as he regaled me with stories of building forts and digging for worms in the back yard. He kept eating between thoughts, each forkful diminishing the pile of mashed potatoes. Each bite another step toward freedom.
It didn’t take him long to finish every last crumb.
With each bite, I noticed his eyes droop. Heard him slur his speech a bit more.
I didn’t breathe easy yet, though. I couldn’t. Not until I saw him fall.
I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and set it gently onto my plate. Henry stood and began to clear the dishes. He wobbled, gripping the edge of the table for balance.
I jumped to help him, feigning concern. “Are you okay?”
He blinked slowly, confusion knitting his brow. “Yeah, just a little dizzy all of a sudden.”
I steadied him with both hands. “It’s probably from the concussion. You didn’t do yourself any favors by staring at a computer screen all afternoon. You should lie down.”
He nodded, obviously disoriented. “Maybe.”
I guided him to the couch. He dropped onto it heavily, his head tipping back against the cushion, eyes drifting half-shut.
“I’ll clean up,” I whispered.
He murmured something unintelligible.
I moved fast, not knowing how much time those pills would buy me.
Regardless, I fought to stay calm as I washed the dishes, erasing any evidence he may later uncover of what I’d done.
I checked on him every few minutes to make sure he hadn’t somehow regained his faculties.
He was still conscious, but fighting it with every second.
The third time I checked, he was out cold, his soft snores filling the air.
My heart kicked into high gear. I ran to the bedroom, yanked on the jeans and t-shirt I’d worn the day he abducted me.
I was about to hurry back down the stairs when I spied Henry’s duffel bag once more.
I hastily unzipped it and grabbed a fat wad of cash.
A part of me hated stealing from him, but why should I care?
This was money he’d been paid for me. I had a right to it.
I started to zip the duffel back up when my eyes fell on the cell phone. I had no idea where I was or where to go. The phone may not have had any bells and whistles, but it did have a GPS. I could use that.
After shoving it in my pocket, I crept back down the stairs, keeping my feet light so as to not wake up Henry. From the closet, I grabbed a coat, hat, and gloves, as well as my sneakers. Then I headed toward the door leading to the garage.
I placed my hand on the knob and was about to turn when a soft whine cut through the silence. I turned around to see Cato sitting behind me, his eyes drawn. He let out a single sharp bark.
My breath hitched, adrenaline heating my veins, especially when a groan sounded from the living room.
Shit .
“Cato,” Henry mumbled, his voice slurred and heavy with exhaustion. “Hush.”
For one terrifying second, I thought he might get up. That he’d come stumbling in here and find me halfway out the door with his cash and phone in my pocket. But the groan was followed by silence. Then a snore.
I didn’t breathe until I heard the rhythm of it settle again. Then I crouched down to Cato’s level and scratched his head.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But I have to go.”
Cato lowered himself to the floor, his big head resting on his paws, watching me with mournful eyes.
“I don’t belong here.”
He released a soft huff, like he understood. Or maybe like he knew he couldn’t stop me.
This time when I reached for the knob, he didn’t bark. I eased the door open, giving Cato one last smile before slipping into the garage.
The keys to the Jeep were exactly where they were the last time I was in here. Grabbing them, I searched for a button, something that would open the large bay doors.
I didn’t have to look far, finding one next to the panel holding all the keys, each one labeled with a number. I took a risk on number two and the door in front of the Jeep rose, slow and ominous, revealing the dark wilderness surrounding us.
I hurried to the vehicle and jumped inside, my hands trembling as I gripped the wheel. It had been so long since I’d driven, especially a stick shift. But it came back, muscle memory taking over.
Clutch. Brake. Ignition.
The engine rumbled to life, and I eased the Jeep forward, the tires crunching over frozen gravel.
As I turned on the dirt path, I glanced in the rearview mirror at the house that had been both haven and prison.
One breath.
Two.
Then I kept driving. Toward freedom. Toward answers. Toward whatever came next.