CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE PAST
He didn’t let me go.
Instead, he gave me more old texts, refilled my glass of water, and fed me irregular plates of plain food—rice, beans, bread—before leaving me alone again.
To fight against the dying light.
To piss in my sheets.
To surrender to the words being forced down my fucking throat.
I lost all sense of time.
Had it been days?
Weeks?
Where was my son?
What was Oliver doing beyond that room?
The lamps died and were replaced. Sometimes he brought more, but save for one, they were always out of reach. They became a countdown to the next examination.
The glass of water returned, then disappeared again.
My stomach gnawed at itself until the hunger stopped feeling sharp and became something dull and constant.
And all the while, the books remained beside me.
Always there.
Their pages became stained by my trembling hands, smudged with sweat and tears.
At first, I read with fury, skimming the words so I could say I had. I told myself I wouldn’t let them sink in. That it was all part of Oliver’s sick manipulation.
But something happens when you read the same words over and over in the dark, half-delirious, with no sound but your own voice.
They sink.
The books kept telling me that pain was made worse by the mind. That suffering came from resisting what couldn’t be changed. That peace depended on controlling my thoughts, no matter what was happening to my body.
I knew why Oliver had chosen those words.
If I suffered, it was because I had failed to master myself. If I was afraid, the fear was another weakness.
Even chained to the floor, I was supposed to believe the real prison existed inside my own mind.
“What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”
The sentence burrowed under my skin.
Sometimes I read aloud to keep my throat from closing up. Sometimes I whispered the passages like prayers until I forgot whether they were Seneca’s or mine.
I hated him for it.
Hated Oliver.
Hated Seneca.
Hated myself for finding even the smallest comfort in words meant to cage me.
But comfort came anyway.
The oil lamps lived and died in cycles.
The pad beneath me grew stiff with sweat, tears, and the grit of my own skin. The chain rubbed my ankle raw until the flesh cracked and scabbed.
And the books never left my side.
I hated them.
I needed them.
When I thought of Rowe, escape, or how much I hated Oliver, Seneca’s voice pressed against mine.
Was this wisdom?
Or was this exactly what Oliver wanted?
When Oliver returned again, I didn’t look at him with fire anymore.
I barely looked at him at all.
He crouched as always, patient, the way a tutor waited for a child to answer.
“Tell me about death, Daisy.”
My lips moved before my mind could catch them.
“He who fears death will never live.”
Oliver smiled, satisfied. His hand brushed my cheek, and this time, I didn’t flinch.
My body remained still beneath his touch.
“Do you see now?” he whispered. “How much better you can be when you let go of resistance?”
My eyes blurred with tears I didn’t feel fall.
“I see.”
I knew it was what he wanted to hear.
What frightened me was how easily I had said it.
Later, alone again, I curled into myself and clutched the book against my chest.
I whispered lines into the dark without choosing them anymore. They fell out of me with every shallow breath.
“What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”
My tears slid silently into my hair.
I no longer knew whether I was crying for my life or for the part of me that was disappearing.
The oil lamp sputtered beside me, its weak flame pulling at the shadows in the corners. My eyes stung from the smoke and the endless pages of Seneca.
I had read the same words so many times they no longer felt printed on the page.
Oliver’s voice cut through the silence.
Calm.
Patient.
“Tell me,” he said. “Have you learned your lesson, or must I enlighten you further?”
I kept my gaze fixed on the book, though the letters blurred.
I knew what he wanted to hear.
“I’ve learned my lesson,” I whispered.
The answer came too easily.
For one sickening moment, I wondered whether I meant it. Whether I might have avoided all of this if I had shown more interest in his work. If I had kept my mouth shut. If I had remained the wife he believed he married.
I caught the thought and held on to it.
Looked at what it was.
It wasn’t mine.
He had put it there.
But knowing that didn’t make it disappear.
He had Rowe. He had the apology letters and everything I had told Dr. Carlisle. If I ran, he would use them. He would tell everyone I was unstable.
Violent.
Dangerous.
He would take my son.
I lifted my head and looked at Oliver.
I saw what he was capable of now. He could hurt me. He could hurt Rowe.
He could kill.
“I understand,” I said. My voice shook. “I’ll be your student.”
Oliver smiled faintly.
“I think you’ve earned some freedoms.”
My breath caught as he reached for the chain.
He unlocked the metal around my ankle, and the sudden absence of its weight felt almost as strange as wearing it. His fingers moved over the broken skin before he took my hand and tried to pull me upright.
My knees gave out beneath me.
He caught me before I hit the floor.
“Slowly,” he murmured, as though he hadn’t been the one who left me there.
I leaned against him because my body gave me no choice.
The air hit me first when he opened the door.
Damp. Earthy. Touched with pine.
I blinked against the sudden openness and realized where I had been kept.
Not in a hidden room inside the cabin.
The shed.
The same shed Oliver had been vague about whenever I asked.
The woods pressed close behind it, dark and endless. My clothes and shoes were gone. My bare feet sank into the cold earth, and my legs shook beneath me.
Even if I ran, I wouldn’t make it far.
Oliver’s hand remained firm around my arm.
“Where is Rowe?” I asked.
The words tore at my throat.
“He’s safe.”
“Where?”
“He believes you’re unwell. You’ll see him when you’re ready.”
“I want to see him now.”
“You aren’t ready.”
His voice was gentle.
That frightened me more than if he had shouted.
His grip tightened slightly as he led me toward the cabin.
Was I the first person he had kept inside that shed?
Or only the latest?
My eyes moved toward the woods.
Eyes, eyes, everywhere.
Oliver spoke as though he were giving me a gift. He told me I could bathe. Wash my hair. Change into the nightgown he had laid out.
Then I would cook for the two of us.
His words carried the expectation of ordinary domestic life, as if the shed didn’t exist behind us.
I nodded.
Inside the cabin, he showed me the bathroom. The windows were latched, and the telephone that usually sat near the kitchen was gone.
“Call me when you’re dressed,” he said.
He left humming to himself.
The door shut.
I heard the lock turn.
My body moved before my mind did. I pulled at the bathroom window, but it wouldn’t open. I searched the cupboards beneath the sink.
Nothing.
No phone. No clothes. No shoes.
I discarded the filthy robe and stepped shakily into the shower stall.
The water struck my skin in hard streams, hot at first, then cooling as it ran down my arms.
I pressed my palms against the tiled wall and let it wash the dirt and sweat from me.
I wept quietly, my tears disappearing into the water.
For a moment, I was grateful.
Grateful to be clean.
Grateful that I had answered correctly enough for Oliver to let me out of the shed.
The gratitude frightened me.
He had starved me, chained me, and left me in the dark. Now he had given me a shower, and some part of me wanted to thank him for it.
I pressed my forehead against the tile.
I had to remember what he had done.
I had to remember that being allowed to bathe wasn’t kindness.
When I finally turned off the tap, the silence pressed against me.
I wrapped myself in the towel he had left, the fabric scratchy against my skin, and stared at the nightgown folded neatly on the counter.
Bathe.
Change.
Cook.
I dried myself and put it on.
By the time I entered the kitchen, the counter had been prepared for me. A slab of raw steak. Vegetables waiting to be chopped.
And beside them, a tall glass of water.
My throat tightened at the sight of it.
Water.
So ordinary, yet it had become another thing Oliver could give or take away.
He sat at the table, his posture relaxed, his eyes fixed on me.
“Go on,” he said softly. “Cook for us. You’ve earned it.”
I crossed the kitchen and drank the entire glass before reaching for the knife.
“Yes,” I murmured. “I’ll make dinner.”
The blade struck the cutting board, every chop loud in the silence.
“You’ll continue your studies,” Oliver said. “If you’re good, I’ll bring Rowe here. Rewards come with obedience.”
My chest tightened at the mention of my son.
I kept my eyes on the knife.
“I understand.”
“When the time comes, we’ll return home. Things will be different. You’ll perform your duties. You’ll be a good mother to Rowe, and I’ll give you the greatest life. You’ll be enlightened and happy.”
The knife gleamed beneath the kitchen light.
For a moment, I wondered whether I could use it.
My hand shook badly enough that the blade tapped against the board.
Even if I managed to hurt him, I didn’t know where Rowe was. If Oliver survived, I might never see my son again.
His chair scraped against the floor.
My breath caught.
He approached from behind until I felt his body close to mine.
I turned with the knife still clutched in my hand.
Oliver looked down at it.
Then at me.
“I’m doing this for you,” he whispered. His eyes held a terrible sweetness. “I love you. I will never let you go. To let you go would mean something very grave had happened to you.”
The threat sat plainly between us.
My grip loosened.
“I understand,” I whispered.
Oliver took the knife gently from my hand and placed it on the counter.
We ate in silence.
The steak was tough and the vegetables were limp, but Oliver chewed with satisfaction, his eyes rarely leaving me.
Every bite I took felt like another test.
When the plates were cleared, he rose and held out his hand.
“Come,” he said. “You’ve done well tonight.”
I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do.
He led me into the bedroom, where another nightgown—more revealing than the first—lay folded neatly on the bed.
I changed beneath his watchful gaze and slipped beneath the covers.
He turned off the light.
He didn’t offer a reprieve.
The moment he joined me in bed, his body found mine. His touch was greedy and rough, and when I cried out from the pain, he held me tighter.
I waited for it to end.
There was only pleasure, and it belonged to him.
I didn’t fight.
I knew what fighting would cost me.
With every movement, I thought about Rowe. About June. About getting out of the cabin.
I found somewhere quiet inside myself and stayed there until Oliver was finished.
Afterward, sleep came in fragments, broken by the weight of fear.
When I woke, morning light filtered through the curtains. Oliver was already seated at the table, waiting.
“Breakfast,” he said, nodding toward the counter.
I obeyed.
Despite the pain between my legs, I moved without pause. My hands worked automatically, frying eggs, slicing bread, and arranging the food as though I had done it every morning of my life.
He ate with approval.
When the plates were cleared, he gestured toward the far side of the cabin.
“Now your studies continue.”
The desk overlooked the yard and the shed, its window framing the woods beyond. There was no clutter. No distraction.
Only the books he had laid out in a neat stack.
He pulled out the chair and motioned for me to sit.
I lowered myself carefully, my stomach twisting as the soreness between my legs sharpened.
“You will read,” Oliver said. “You will learn. And you will understand why I do this.”
I opened the first book.
The words blurred before sharpening into meaning.
Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.
Prisoners chained in darkness, watching shadows on a wall and believing those shadows were real.
I stopped reading.
Through the window, I could see the shed.
Oliver stood behind me, one hand resting lightly on the back of my chair.
Eyes, eyes, everywhere.
“Do you see?” he asked softly. “Do you understand now?”
I looked down at the prisoners on the page.
“Yes,” I said. “I see.”
I saw the shed.
The books.
The chain he had removed from my ankle and the one he was trying to place inside my mind.
My lessons had only just begun.