Chapter 20
Sadie
The caliche under my boots is cold now, the midnight wind picking up the fine, powdery dust and driving it against the fabric of my sweatpants.
I don’t look back at the barn. I don’t look back at the sliding steel door or the dark stalls where I just left a capital murderer with my taste still on his tongue.
I walk with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, my fingers curled into tight, rigid fists, trying to hold the pieces of myself together before I hit the porch steps.
I can still taste him. The memory of his hands—heavy, calloused, but terrifyingly gentle against the bruised skin of my jaw—crawls up my neck like he’s still right here.
He doesn’t get to touch you again. Ever.
The words are a jagged splinter lodged straight in my brain, vibrating with every beat of my heart. Cade thinks he’s a savior. He thinks he can clear a path through the monsters because he’s got a head full of demons and a history of snapping throats.
But he doesn’t understand the geography of this ranch.
He doesn’t understand that out here, the cages don’t have spaces between the bars. They’re solid steel, and they’re welded straight to the foundation.
And Clayton is the warden of the tomb.
I reach the wooden steps of the back porch, my boots making a dull, hollow thud against the warped pine planks.
The screen door whines on its rusted spring as I pull it open, the sound cutting sharp through the quiet Texas night.
I catch the latch before it can slap back against the frame, easing the wood into the groove with a slow, oiled click.
Inside, the mudroom hits me like an Arctic front. The central air is screaming, pumping a relentless, freezing draft through the vents until the sweat on my collar goes stiff and cold against my skin.
I stand in the pitch black of the laundry room for a few beats, my chest heaving, my ears straining against the silence of the house. From down the long hallway, I can hear it. The deep, rhythmic snore of my husband.
My heart thumps against my ribs, but my body moves in total quiet. I know this house in the dark. I know the exact number of steps it takes to cross the faded linoleum without hitting the soft spot in the floorboards that groans under a footstep.
I move into the kitchen. On the table, the mess from dinner is still waiting. The grease from the ribeye has cooled into a white, waxy film against the cast iron skillet, and the empty water glasses are sitting exactly where Clayton left them.
Do your job. Clean the cage.
I pull the dish towel from the drawer, turn the tap on low, and let the scalding water fill the basin.
I don’t turn on the overhead light. The only illumination in the room is the faint orange blink of the monitor strapped above my left ankle, casting a small, pulsing circle of red across the base cabinet every five seconds.
Another reminder that I might be too far gone for anything to matter.
The plastic band catches against my skin as I lean over the sink, the tight housing digging into the raw, pink ring where the battery has been chafing me all summer. I wince, clamping my teeth together until my jaw catches on that sharp wire of pain from Clayton’s fist.
Still, I scrub. I run the coarse rag over the iron, scraping away the hardened fat, the motion mechanical and mindless. Rinse. Dry.
And don’t think about Cade between my legs.
I stack the mugs in the cupboard. I fold the hand towels.
If I keep the micro-world straight, the macro-world can’t cave in on me. That’s the lie I’ve been telling myself for five years. But as I wipe down the butcher block, my eyes slide involuntarily toward the dark window above the sink.
Down in the draw, the old barn is nothing but a black silhouette cut out of the moonlight. Cade is down there, probably propped against the north wall, probably watching the house.
What we did was wrong. So wrong.
The shame rises up in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut to force it back down. I’m a married woman under house arrest, scrubbing my kitchen in the dark after letting a fugitive lap the violation of my husband off my thighs. I let him touch me.
I wanted him to touch me. When his tongue found the copper stain between my legs, I didn’t feel the cage anymore. For ten minutes, I felt like a person.
And it reminds me of the way I felt when I thought I could make it out of here.
I wring out the rag, twist it until the water runs clear under the spout, and hang it over the center divider. The kitchen is immaculate. There isn’t a footprint left on the floor or a speck of dust on the counter.
The facade is complete.
I turn and walk down the narrow hallway, my bare feet sticking slightly to the old vinyl. The darkness grows thicker the closer I get to the master bedroom, the air smelling heavily of Clayton’s cologne.
The doorframe catches my shoulder as I slip into the room. In the gloom, the unvarnished pine dresser stands like a tombstone, the framed wedding photo on top catching a sliver of moonlight through the edge of the blackout curtains.
I was so young, wearing a white lace dress my mother bought in Lubbock, smiling a genuine, wide smile because I thought the man with his hand on my waist was a shield against the rest of the world.
I look at the heavy silhouette of that same man sprawled across the mattress, and a cold, hollow dread settles into the center of my chest.
‘You don’t have to stay,’ I hear my father’s words in my ears. ‘No matter what anyone thinks or says or believes in this town, you don’t have to stay.’
I pull my gray sweatpants down, my knuckles brushing the damp material between my thighs, and slide them onto the floor.
I kick them under the bed, out of sight, and pull on a clean pair of thin pajama pants.
My body feels raw, bruised, and completely disconnected from my mind, a set of muscles and nerves that just happen to be carrying my pulse around.
I lift the heavy quilt and slide into the bed, keeping my spine perfectly straight as I settle onto the very edge of the mattress. I don’t let my skin touch his. Even through the sheets, the heat radiating off Clayton’s frame feels oppressive, like it might smother me if I get too close.
He shifts and rolls toward me. His arm flings out, the heavy, dry flat of his hand landing across my hip on an automatic, possessive reflex.
Just breathe. Just breathe. I lock my jaw and stare straight up at the ceiling, tracking the long, winding cracks that run above the bed.
One strike. Two strikes. I count the seconds on the digital clock on the nightstand, the small red numbers blinking out the time in a slow, digital orbit. Time ticks by.
4:12 AM.
The sun will be up in less than two hours.
And I will have to stand at the stove, pour Clayton’s coffee, and pretend that the world hasn’t completely dissolved under my feet.
I lie there in the freeze of the room, pinned beneath the weight of my husband’s hand, while my mind slips right back down the hill to the barn. I hold onto the image of Cade’s face in the moonlight like an anchor.
I am trapped in multiple cages now. The state has my ankle, Clayton has my name, and Cade has something much more dangerous.
And I don’t see a story where this ends well.
“There’s gonna be storms blowing in,” Clayton says, dumping his coffee right back down the drain, as per usual. “And there’s some real shit going down at the station right now, so I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“What do you mean?” I manage to mutter, sipping my own coffee and hoping like hell it’ll feed me the energy that I need from having no sleep last night.
“Don’t worry about it. Just stay in the house as much as you can,” Clayton grunts, as he moves toward the door. “I’ll be home later.”
I watch as Clayton slips out into the mudroom, the door slamming behind him. I wait until the truck roars down the driveway, and then I make a beeline for the computer.
This time I’ll delete the search history, I tell myself as I flip the laptop open. Quickly, I type in the county, and within seconds, the screen lights up with results.
AWOL MURDERER MARINE SEEN IN DESERT BY RANCHER’S GAME CAMERA.
“Oh shit,” I whisper, clicking through the grainy image. It doesn’t give a location, but I know law enforcement has it.
And it won’t be long, and they trace his path here.
I exit out of the browser and delete the history from this morning. I should probably be seeing my therapist, but at this point…
I don’t think I’m savable.
In a mad dash, I gather a couple of protein bars and water, slipping out into the backyard. The sky looks clear, but off to the northwest, it’s darkening, with clouds building.
Flint bounds along behind me, as I roll the barn door open and the light floods the decrepit space.
And there’s Cade.
He looks like the Marine from the post office flyer now, his color no longer pale and his legs both in mostly working order. The smug, young cowboy from the base photos is entirely gone, replaced by a predator that has finally recovered.
I hold out the protein bars and water for him, just like the normal routine.
Cade takes them from my hands, lingering with his fingertips against my skin for a second longer than friendly.
“You’re quiet today,” he says, tilting his head at me as he retreats. “Why?”
I don’t look up, my mind filling with the image of the computer screen. “This morning, Clayton—”
“He touched you again?”
I finally look at him, meeting those pale, unblinking blue eyes under his mess of blondish hair. “No,” I say, my voice flat. “He didn’t touch me, but he did mention the department is chaotic, and then I went on the computer, and…”
My voice is cut off by the thrum of helicopter blades.
Cade’s eyes widen. “They know I’m alive.”
I nod. “They know.”
Cade shifts his weight, his good leg taking the brunt of it, but there’s no wince in his face anymore. “You need to move me out of this barn.”
The words, a thought I’ve suppressed comes bubbling up in response. “You need to move on, Cade. Steal the farm truck from the barn and go.”
His expression darkens. “Then go pack your shit.”
My heart skips a beat. “I can’t go.”
“Then neither can I.”
I open my mouth to respond, but then I hear it—the sound of a vehicle pulling back up the drive.
My throat constricts, a wave of cold panic rising up from my chest. I don’t answer him. I just leave, pull the steel door shut behind me, letting it slam.
The sky above the ridge is the color of a bad bruise, the storm clouds stacking up in long, greenish-yellow walls against the horizon. The wind is picking up, rattling the dry mesquite and blowing the smell of rain straight into my face.
I walk up the hill toward the house, my left ankle monitor throbbing against my leg as my eyes land on a black truck sitting in my driveway.
Maybe the feds?
That thought dies as the man slides out of the driver’s seat. His light eyes rattle me to my core. I have no idea who this man is.
But I know he’s bad news.