39
Ten years ago
Drew Mims. That was Crystal’s jailer’s name. It’d taken him three weeks to tell her.
Crystal was biding her time. Being good. Watching her mouth. Doing as he said. And as each week went by, Drew allowed her more liberties. If she was good for long enough, she hoped he might leave her completely untied during the night.
She was positive that Gage would never return for her. She didn’t know what secrets Drew knew about Gage, but they had made her husband run away with his tail between his legs.
The coward.
It was up to her to escape.
She’d never return to Gage. He’d burned that bridge. A tiny bit of regret twinged at the thought of leaving Emma behind, but Gage was an adult. He could handle a little girl.
I’d be free!
As she sat in the windowless building, she daydreamed of the single life.
Bars where she could dance with anyone. Drink as much as she wanted.
Party as late as she desired. Grocery stores where she would buy whatever she wanted to eat and not feel obligated to buy what Emma or Gage wanted.
She deserved to move on. She’d done her duty as a mother and wife.
I’m so over that life.
Crystal would be single again. The idea excited her. A new man—many new men!
She’d happily leave Eagle’s Nest in the dust.
Money was an issue, though. And she’d have to figure out a way to keep Drew from finding her.
He’d already told her dozens of times that she was his forever, and that he would kill Gage if he tried to take her away.
Then Drew would get close to her face and yank her hair so she looked up at him and tell her he’d kill her if she tried to leave.
She believed him.
So she had to be smart about her escape.
Because she wasn’t spending the rest of her life in this shack.
No matter how wonderful Drew thought this place was. No matter how much a part of his soul he claimed the old building was, she hated it. So what if he’d repaired a board here or there? So what if his grandfather had helped build it?
It wasn’t wonderful; it sucked. It was cold. No running water. No electricity. No windows.
A fucking outhouse.
He’d finally trusted her enough to let her use the outhouse without the rope around her neck.
He still stood near the building and watched for her to return, her hands and ankles loosely tied, but it was a step in the right direction and an easy way to teach him to trust her.
It wouldn’t be long before Drew stayed inside when she went.
He’d brought her some books. Nature and history. She was crushed that they weren’t thrillers or romances, but she read them from cover to cover, making herself go slow and read every word just to have something to do. That’s how dull it was to be tied up 24-7 in the utilitarian room.
The only good part was when Drew took her for walks, although he put a rope around her neck like a leash.
It’d humiliated her at first, but no one could see, so she got over it.
She’d missed seeing the sky and trees. Even the dirt.
She focused on their surroundings when he took her out.
If she escaped, she needed to know where to go, but she never spotted a road.
The two of them would wander through the pines until she was thoroughly lost. He showed her odd rock formations and a high overlook—but there were no roads or signs of civilization.
She voiced her appreciation for the walks, hoping he’d take her on more so she could learn her way out of the woods.
She could follow the ruts from the building.
No doubt they eventually went to a road, but she worried that when he went looking for her, that was the way he’d go.
Her best chance would be to leave in the dark and follow the ruts.
But his headlights might spot her even if she stayed away from the rutted path a little way, trying to use it as a guide.
She was scared to risk running deeper into the woods, farther from the path. She might never find her way out.
So she needed to be able to hide effectively when she heard his truck coming.
She asked Drew for warmer clothes since she was always cold, suggesting some cheap sweats in black so they wouldn’t appear dirty so quickly.
He agreed. He eventually bought her some in navy blue, which was good enough for her plan.
They would help hide her from his headlights as she ran through the dark.
Sometimes he would leave and be gone an overnight or two, telling her he had to go home. He’d tie her to the wall and give her a bucket, a gallon of water, and a stack of sandwiches.
Crystal hated when he left. Not that she found him entertaining, but at least he was something to watch as he wandered around and did chores. Her personal version of redneck TV.
Her suggestion that he bring something to feed her besides sandwiches caused him confusion. “Why? It’s just fuel. Doesn’t matter what form it’s in.”
“I’m sick of sandwiches.”
“It’s all food.”
“I need a variety of food.”
“Why?”
She gave up.
He would get hyperfocused on particular objects and ramble on about them. Like the plants outside during their walks or the construction of the building. Then there were the things he ignored. Like food.
But Drew was careful to never give her food that required a spoon or fork.
He kept knives and all other utensils locked up outside.
Things that she could hurt him with were also on his list of hyperfixations.
The room was always cleared of anything that could possibly be a weapon—she’d checked many times.
Once she watched him study a plastic grocery bag for thirty seconds. And then take it outside.
Did he think I could overpower him and put it over his head?
Speed was her only weapon. She’d been a runner before she hooked up with Gage and discovered pot and alcohol were much more enjoyable, so she was woefully out of shape.
Sitting in the building, she swore she’d never let that happen again.
It’d put her at a huge disadvantage, so she worked her muscles when Drew was outside.
Squats with her ankles tied. Pushups with her hands side by side.
Several weeks of the work had created a noticeable difference in her muscle tone.
The new strength was empowering.
And she closely studied Drew. He was strong and big, but he was slow and methodical when he walked, moving as if each step needed to be fully planted before he took another. If she could somehow knock him over, he’d go down hard, giving her the seconds she needed to run.
She was positive the only reason he’d caught her that horrible night was that she’d been tangled in a bush and rather drunk.
Then came the day that she decided she could escape.
She’d seen the full moon on a solo walk to the outhouse—he still watched from the house—and knew it would give her some light to escape at night.
She slept in the navy sweats all the time, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
The sweatshirt had a hood that could hide her pale hair, and there was a large pocket in front of her stomach.
She’d been lining the pocket with the crusts from her sandwiches, pushing them into the seams. They were soft and malleable, so the subtle lumps were unnoticeable during the day.
Those would be her food. She always wore her tennis shoes.
It made trips to the outhouse quicker and easier on him.
Water was a problem. Crystal had tried for weeks to think of a way to carry water. She couldn’t run with a gallon jug, and her little plastic cup would spill. She’d never heard a river or creek on their walks. It seemed her only choice was to grab a gallon jug that hopefully wasn’t full.
Water was usually kept outside, but he got tired of bringing it in the gallon jug every time she asked, so he started leaving it on a bunk.
As they returned from the morning walk, she saw it was three-quarters full.
She asked for several glasses that day, commenting how thirsty she was.
By bedtime it was a little over half full.
I think I can run with that.
At least she’d be well hydrated at the start of her escape.
Just as he was methodical when he moved or spoke, he had a set routine for securing her before he went to bed.
She was always quiet and obedient when he came to “tuck her in,” and over time he had become more relaxed during the process.
No more sharp orders or blows to her face.
She was becoming his good little wife. For the first two weeks, he’d tightly bound her ankles and her wrists at night and then connected those ropes to one around her stomach, making her sleep with her legs bent and her wrists near her waist. Another rope ran from the stomach one to the bar in the wall.
Little by little he’d eased off the restraints.
First he’d lengthened the rope from her stomach to her ankles, which allowed her to stretch out her legs as she slept.
A little more slack in the rope to the bar in the wall so she could roll onto her back.
The wrist bindings were always on and in front of her, but he’d allowed about a foot of rope between them.
And then another day he removed the ankle bindings in the mornings and only put them back on at night.
By the time Crystal had decided to escape, his tuck-in routine after bringing her back from the outhouse had devolved into three orderly steps: First attach the rope from the bar to her stomach rope—which was never removed.
Add the bindings to her ankles and then run a rope from her constant wrist restraints to her stomach.
Her advantage was that her hands and ankles were last, her hands and feet free to fight.
She could use her head as a weapon for a headbutt, and she wasn’t scared to use her teeth.
She just had to force her escape before he finished tying her stomach rope to the bar.
He’d be down at her level as he went to fasten her to the wall.
She wasn’t scared; she’d been in fights.
Some had been with women when she was drunk, and plenty had been with Gage when she wasn’t drunk.
The keys were to never stop fighting, to use every tool at her disposal, and to give it all the power she had.
Crystal touched her jaw. The pain from his blows was gone, but it popped oddly when she ate.
I’ve got nothing to lose.
She’d rather be dead than belong to Drew any longer.
The rest of her planned escape day seemed to take forever. She looked at a book, pretending to read. Asked for water and ate the sandwich he’d made for dinner. He’d bought a lot of tuna fish recently, and he simply spread it directly from the can onto the bread. No mayo, no lettuce.
She ate it all, knowing she needed the protein.
After her evening trip to the outhouse in the dark, she lay quietly on her back on the floor, holding the book above her head, pretending to read, even yawning a few times to appear tired.
It was time.
As he did every night, he came over and went down on one knee as he reached for the rope behind her that was fastened to the bar to tie it to the rope at her waist. She watched him from beneath her lashes, her gaze seemingly directed at her book.
He’s so big.
The harder they fall.
Before he could touch her waist’s rope, she whipped up both her legs, bent them at the knees, and slammed both her feet into his crotch with all her strength.
Drew’s scream ripped at her eardrums. He fell face-first, his hands pressed to his crotch, his eyes squeezed shut. His face went pale, his forehead braced against the floor, and his jaw opened and closed as he worked through the pain.
Crystal leaped onto his back, hung on with her knees, and flung herself forward to hook the short length of rope between her wrists around his neck.
And then pulled back with all her weight and muscle, seesawing the rope, trying to cut off his air and the blood to his brain.
He dug at the choking rope with one hand, trying to get his fingers between it and his neck.
When that failed, he reached back and grabbed one of her feet.
His other hand was still clasped to his crotch.
He jerked on her foot, trying to yank her off his back.
Panic shot through her.
It’s not choking him!
The rope around his neck hadn’t done enough damage, and his strength returned as he shot to his knees and pulled her off his back as if she weighed nothing.
She scrambled to her feet, and he grabbed the rope at her waist, but he was still on his knees at her level.
She lunged in, throwing all her energy to headbutt his nose.
The sickening crunch reverberated through her brain as he roared. Warm blood spatter hit her hands as she shoved him and he fell to his side, his hands now at his nose.
“I will kill you!” he howled.
Hair stood on her neck as she lurched away toward the door.
Get out get out get out!
Her fingers fumbled with the ancient latch as panic swelled in her head.
Thumps sounded behind her, and suddenly it felt as if a giant rock landed on her shoulder.
With one hand he yanked her away from the door, and she landed on her back, him towering above her.
Blood flowed from his nose; hate poured from his eyes.
“You fucking little bitch!” He raised one foot high to stomp on her chest.
He’ll break my ribs. Or worse.
She raised her legs and shot a kangaroo-type kick at the side of the knee of his other leg.
He shrieked and collapsed to the side, shaking the floor, writhing in pain, his howls filling the room.
I’ll never forget those sounds.
Crystal stumbled to the door and released the latch. She swung the door wide, deliberately slamming the edge into his face. The skin over his cheekbone split down to his lip, and she swore she saw a glimpse of bone before she dashed out of the building and into the dark.
I didn’t grab the water.
Crystal didn’t care. She sprinted down the ruts, the moon giving just enough light for her to avoid falling on her face. As she got away from the house, his screams started to fade.
I can do this.
Her tied hands were awkward, making her focus to keep her balance as she ran, and she followed the ruts as planned, her hearing focused behind her, waiting for the engine to come to life before she ran into the woods.
She panted, breathing hard, and her side started to hurt.
Her legs were strong, but her endurance wasn’t great.
Then she heard it.
Not an engine, not tires on the rocks.
It was his roar. And it was getting closer.
He was on foot; he could run.
I made a mistake.
I’ll die because of it.