Chapter 18
Sadie
I stare out the kitchen window at the old barn, where I left Cade. He went silent after checking fences, and something about the way he just disappeared back into that barn has me on edge.
Especially the way he glared down at my wedding ring.
My gaze drops to the ring on my left hand. I can’t imagine not wearing it—not anymore. There was a time I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
Now there’s just a brick wall in the shape of Clayton.
The sound of tires rips me back to reality. The headlights from the county truck sweep the living room in a slow, pale orbit, then fade. I hear the steps quickly thereafter, up the porch and through the mudroom.
Clayton doesn’t look at me as soon as he steps in. He just drops his hat on the hook, shrugs off his vest, and comes straight for the kitchen.
The food is already plated, steam curling off the ribeye, potatoes golden at the edges, green beans snapped down to bite-sized and dressed with the same cheap olive oil I’ve used since our wedding years ago.
I linger at the sink, watching his stiff movements. Did I do something wrong?
Clayton sits, pours a glass of water, sips, sets the glass down, then cuts into the steak with a precise sawing motion. His hands are steady, his lips pursed. He eats in silence for the first minute, then wipes his mouth with the napkin and leans back, fork still in his left hand.
“Long day,” he says, not looking at me. “Took a call out on Route 9. Cattle wandering the shoulder. Dumbass up the way never fixes his own fences, so we all end up dealing with the fallout. Typical.” He pauses, his eyes dark. “You gonna just stand there? Or eat with me?”
I nod, move across the kitchen, and slide into my seat across from him. I split my own steak, and taste nothing. I chew, swallow, and set the fork down in silence.
Clayton keeps going, narrating his day in tight, measured increments. “Property dispute. Same two brothers, neither of them worth a shit, both calling me to say the other’s a liar. Had to sit there and pretend like I cared.”
I just keep nodding.
“I stopped at the feed store. New kid working the register. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. Disrespectful. There’s also some kind of fed poking around.”
“Oh? What for?” I pick up my glass of water and take a sip.
“That AWOL Marine.”
“The feds are handling that?” I furrow my brow. “I figure it’d be—”
“Takes everyone for that kind of manhunt,” he cuts me off, and then peers across the table, finally looking at me. “You sleeping all right?”
I swallow my bite. “I’m sleeping okay.”
“You look tired,” he hums, taking another bite. “Your eyes are dull. You not feeling good?”
I shake my head. “Just a lot of chores today. I patched the west fence, then cleaned the house.”
He waits a beat, sets his knife down, and stares at me from across the table. His gaze is flat, a colorless gray that matches the linoleum. “Billy said he saw the dog by the south fence. Said he was working the edge pretty hard. You see what got him stirred up?”
I keep my eyes on my plate. “Probably coyote or something. I can walk it tomorrow and check for tracks.”
Clayton drums his fingers on the table. “I just don’t like you out here by yourself. If you see something, you radio me, okay? You know I want you to reach out to me if you need something.”
“Okay,” I say, my tone soft.
He slides his plate forward, leans over, and puts his hand on mine. His palm is big and dry, the grip tight but not painful. “I worry about you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my skin. “I know you don’t believe it, but I do.”
I nod, and let my own hand go limp under his.
“Come on.” He pushes back from the table, and says, “Leave it,” when I reach for his plate. He stands, stretches, and then reaches for me again.
“I should clean up.”
“I already said to leave it,” Clayton pulls me up from the chair, my shoulder aching at the movement. “I think you need to go to bed. You’re tired.”
He tightens his grip on my hand, and then leads me down the hallway.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady my heart.
The curtains are drawn in the bedroom, thick blackout fabric shutting out the last stripe of light from the yard. There’s a dresser, unvarnished pine, with the framed photo of us on top. It’s our wedding day, both of us younger, his hand at my waist, the smile on my face genuine.
I hate it.
“Get these jeans off,” Clayton mutters, spinning my body in front of his and pinning me by the back of the knees to the bed.
“You know, I am really tired—”
“I know how to shut you up,” he growls into my ear, his fingers tightening around my upper bicep. “Sit down.”
“Clayton…”
“Damnit, why do you always complain, Sadie?” he groans, and then shoves me downward, my ass plopping down on the bed.
He unbuttons his jeans, and I gaze up at him, knowing it’s too late to get away.
Do your job. Keep him happy.
His dick is right in my face, and he wastes no time, grabbing the back of my head and forcing my mouth over his cock.
“That’s it,” he grunts.
But those are the last words out of his mouth, as his hips start to pound into my face.
He gags me over and over, holding my head by my hair.
My face throbs with the dull ache of the still-healing injury, and it’s enough to make me see stars.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears well up, and then spill down my cheeks.
“Damnit.” He pulls himself out of my mouth, letting out a frustrated sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, my hand flying up to my face, a cough sputtering.
“Just lay the fuck down.” He pushes me back, and my head hits the bed with a thump that rattles my brain. His fingers tear apart my jeans, and he pulls the material off from the waist down. He slides on a condom.
‘You’re not suitable to be a mother again.’
And then he forces my legs apart and himself in.
I’m not wet enough for him. I’m not ready. And it fucking hurts.
He fucks me like a man taking out the trash—necessary, methodical, already bored of it before it’s done. His weight pins me to the mattress, and he stares right through me without a single word slipping from his lips.
I force out whimpers, whines, moans…
Whatever it takes to get this over with.
Meanwhile, I count the cracks in the ceiling plaster, the rhythm of the headboard against the wall, the way his breath comes quick and then steadies. My body is a thing happening somewhere else, a set of muscles and nerves that just happen to belong to me for a while.
Finally, his hips stutter, his face contorts in my peripheral, and it’s over.
“Love you, Sadie,” he mutters, as he pulls out and rips the condom off himself.
No, you don’t.
“You not hear me?” he snaps.
“Sorry,” I blink. “Love you, too.”
“That’s what I thought.” He lifts himself off the bed, and then disappears to the bathroom.
I lie on my back, eyes open, watching the red numbers on the digital clock blink out the seconds. I wish the ceiling would cave in, crush me, and make the pain between my legs ease.
But that would be too good of luck, and I don’t have that. I never have.
So, I force myself to get up, ease into a pair of pajama pants, and slip back into bed.
I think about the barn, about the way Cade looked at me today, and said my coffee couldn’t be shitty. I think about the smell of the old hay, the sweat and the moment his fingers brushed my skin.
I hold that image tight and steady behind my eyes, as the shower shuts off down the hall and Clayton makes his way back to the bedroom. I don’t move until Clayton’s breathing goes deep and even, and the only sound in the house is the slow tick of the wall clock in the hallway.
I count the seconds, every one of them proof that I am still here.
Once I’m certain Clayton is out, I get back up. I have a kitchen I still need to clean.
And a murderer in the barn to feed.