CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Brett
One Year Ago
I know that voice, but it shouldn’t be here in this room. I want it to be here, bursting through the doorway to save me. But, instead, it’s coming from the demonic shadow hovering over my body about to slice me to pieces.
He releases my hair, letting me drop onto the mattress, and smoothly steps off the bed onto the carpet. I roll over and push myself up to a crouching position, shaking as I watch him take a few steps back. He reaches behind his shoulders and grabs the back of his sweatshirt by the fists, pulling it up and over his head. Then he balls it up and chucks it into the corner, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath.
“He’s not protecting you now, is he?” he scoffs in the darkness.
The sound of his voice is like a knife through my heart. I scramble to the other night stand and switch on the lamp, nearly knocking it onto the floor like the other one.
Bowen stands in the middle of the room, glaring at me as he rakes his hair back from his eyes, sweat glistening on his brow. All I can do is stare at him in horror from behind the bed, my mouth agape and chin trembling as my body tries to figure out how to function again.
“You’ve been a bad, bad girl,” he coos with pure malice in his eyes, “ Honeybee. ”
“What?” my voice shakes as I try to draw a breath, “ You? ”
The adrenaline and shock are too much and I rush to the bathroom, throwing open the door and pitching forward onto the sink. I grope for the light switch and then the faucet handle as I heave the contents of my stomach into the drain. When there’s nothing left, I spit mouthfuls of tap water and haphazardly rinse my face with one hand. Then I turn around, sinking to the floor with my back against the cupboard doors.
Still gasping and sniffling, I look down at my shirt. The left side of my tank top is ripped along my chest, exposing my pink and purple sports bra. Pink splotches gave way to scratches and welts along my chest and neck. I flinch when I glance up again and see Bowen leaning against the door frame.
“I thought you were into that kind of thing,” he tugs the hand towel off the ring and tosses it into my lap, “or is it just with him?”
I try to speak, but it just comes out as a wheeze. Bowen looks over at the vanity, the empty lavender pill packet sitting on the edge of the sink next to the faucet.
He flicks the edge with his fingertip, sending it clattering into the sink, “You better hope to God that baby’s mine,” he growls with abject disdain.
“ What? ” I squeak out with an airy whimper.
Bowen glances down at the sink again, lingering on the empty packet, then turns his attention back to me with the blackest eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
I can’t look at him, my body still shaking and too terrified to move. After a few moments, he taps my bare foot with the toe of his boot. I shrink back on reflex, but when I look up, he’s reaching down, extending his hand to me. Not knowing what else to do, I take it and let him help me to my feet.
But as soon as I’m upright, he grabs the front of my shirt and slams me up against the wall, pinning me against it with his forearm. I let out a scream and go rigid, flattening my arms against the wall and turning away, squinting my eyes shut. I can’t see, but I can feel him lean closer, the warmth of his skin radiating against mine.
“You’re a fucking glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Brett?” His breath feels hot against my cheek. He doesn’t even sound like himself. “I should’ve strung you up a tree and left you in those woods. You think you can lie to me, you goddamn whore? ” He presses against my shoulders so hard that they feel like they’re going to snap, “You want me to show you what happens to liars in my house?” He slams his other palm against the wall next to my head, making me cry out in terror.
“Let go,” I choke out through tears, “let me go!”
“Let you go?” Bowen pushes his face into mine, “ Where the fuck are you going to go? ” he snarls.
I cringe, pleading with him, “Bowen, what are you talking—”
He jerks my shirt, pulling me forward and slamming me back against the wall again, knocking the wind out of me, “You think you can hide things from me?” he towers over me, “I know where you go, I know who you talk to, I know what you do when you don’t think anyone is paying attention. You’re mine and I own you. ”
Writhing beneath him, I try to push against his arm, but it’s nothing but a vice grip .
What’s he talking about? What does he mean he knows everything I do?
“Bowen, you’re hurting me,” I rasp, trying in vain to calm a situation that’s already gone off the fucking rails.
“Of course I am,” he snarls as his other hand flies to my throat, squeezing it with disregard, “I know how much you love it. I know how wet you get when you think you’re about to die , which is why I have a surprise tonight, just for you baby girl. Jay got really excited when I told him you like getting dicked by two guys.” Bowen lowers his voice to a whisper, “He doesn’t want to watch anymore…”
I squeeze my eyes close in dread, tamping down more sobs as I struggle against his grip.
“Maybe he’ll even bring his brother, finally introduce you,” he continues, “Wells has always been jealous of my toys…”
Wells? Oh my god…
Bowen looks me up and down, “Who’s going to miss you?”
And then the realization sets in—no one is coming.
I’m here with Bowen in this house, with nothing but his rage, and no one is coming.
He hovers for a few more seconds and then finally releases me, taking a step back. Without a word, he turns and strolls out of the bathroom. I force my feet to move, peering out of the bathroom as he heads for the hallway. I don’t know where he’s going, but something tells me I don’t want to know.
I step into the middle of the room, watching him walk further down the hall toward the light of the living room, until he inexplicably slows. He turns over his shoulder and looks at me. I glance at the bedroom door knob, and when he sees the subtle movement of my eyes, his muscles tense and his body spins on a dime. I lunge for the door, heart pounding, and grab the edge as he closes the distance in an instant. But I slam it and punch the lock just before he crashes into the wood.
I stumble back with a gasp, half expecting Bowen to come right through the door. He could easily bust it down, even give it a good shove with his shoulder and that would be that. But he doesn’t. Instead, I listen with shaky breaths as he jerks the handle a couple times and then exhales in exasperation. Without a word, he finally turns around and his heavy footsteps fade away.
My eyes still trained on the door, I stagger backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed and I sink down to the floor. I try to smother my sobs and screams with one of the pillows tossed off the bed in the melee, but it’s no use. They come like a rogue wave, nearly knocking me flat on the floor, and I don’t care if Bowen hears it. Overcome with terror and hopelessness, I claw at my chest and arms, uncontrollably convulsing and flapping my hands, like I’m trying to wipe the last 20 minutes from my body.
For the next few hours, I wait in pure terror, sitting against the bed nearly catatonic with my stomach in knots, listening for the sound of Jay’s tires— anyone’s tires—on the gravel. I know this happens. I know how brutal and savage humans can be to one another. I know people endure torture and plead for death at the hands of people they love. I just never thought it would be me. But who does?
I don’t know how long I wait in silence, with nothing but the sound of my own haggard breaths to keep me company. The digital clock is somewhere under the bed, knocked loose from the outlet, and my phone is in my bag by the front door—out there with him. So, I can only wait for the sound of tires grinding outside the window.
But it never comes.
What do I do now?
A million thoughts run through my mind.
Why was Bowen sending me creepy texts from an unknown number? What did Bowen mean when he said he knows where I go, who I talk to, and what I do? How does he know…Why did he say he wasn’t home? Why was he waiting here? Why did he even do this? Oh, fuck, I forgot to go to the pharmacy! How am I going to get out of here? What’s Bowen going to do to me when I leave this room?
At some point, I finally fall asleep, unable to stay awake for my impending demise. When I wake the next morning, I’m still curled up on the floor next to the bed. The house is silent and the bedroom door still securely locked.
Sore from passing out on the carpet instead of the bed, I creep over to the window and peek out the curtains, rubbing my puffy and swollen eyes. I have a clear view of the driveway. My Tahoe is still sitting in front of the garage, but Bowen’s truck is gone. Not that it means anything, it wasn’t there when I arrived home last night, either. I still don’t know what time it is, but it’s brighter than it usually is when we both leave for work.
I don’t know if Bowen’s really gone, but I can’t stay in this bedroom all day. At some point, I’ll have to open the door. I quietly make my way to the door and put my ear to the wood. The house is completely silent. I don’t even hear Waylon. If things go sideways, I’ll just have to try to make it to the front door.
Gathering my nerves, I grip the brushed nickel handle and twist the lock. Taking a deep breath, I push down on the handle and slowly nudge the door.
Nothing happens.
I nudge the door again, this time harder. But it doesn’t even jiggle in the frame like it does when it’s locked. It’s as though the door is frozen shut. I push harder, finally leaning back and slamming my shoulder into it with no effect. I take a step back, staring at the door for a few moments with a renewed sense of foreboding.
What the hell did he do, nail the door shut? I didn’t hear anything…
I made sure he couldn’t get in. And now, he’s made sure I can’t get out .
Suddenly, I’m alert and focused. A cold feeling seeps over my skin as I remember the events of last night. There’s no time to debate or analyze, only act. With a renewed sense of urgency, I grab my duffel bag from next to the door and empty my work clothes from the previous day onto the floor. Then I fly into the closet and start grabbing new clothes, stuffing them into the bag along with anything else that seems vaguely important, changing into a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt as I go. I make a sweep through the bathroom before zipping up the bag and dropping it next to the bedroom window.
If I can’t open the door, I’ll go out the window. I can open the garage from the keypad, get the extra key hidden in Bowen’s tool chest, and go inside to grab my work bag with my phone and my keys. Throwing the curtains open, I twist the lock open, grab underneath the lip of the window, and pull.
Again, nothing happens.
Tugging frantically, it feels like the window is frozen shut, too. I try the other one next to the bed with the same result. My breaths become shakier and more erratic, the panic rising with every second. The voice guiding my actions suddenly becomes louder and louder.
Find a way out. You have to get out. Now.
Spinning around, I scan the room for something heavy. The night stands? Maybe, but they’re unwieldy. The vanity stool seems too light. I head for the bathroom, eyes darting around each wall until they come to an abrupt halt on the lid of the toilet tank. I blink once and then lunge for it. It’s heavy, but easy to hold and maneuver.
I return to the window, looking it up and down. I’ve never broken a window before. Do I really want to do this? Should I do this?
He said he’s going to gang rape you with Jay and Wells—Jay’s goddamn brother—and then he locked you in the bedroom!
With a deep breath, I reel back and swing the porcelain slab at the glass as hard as I can.
It slams into the panes near the bottom right corner and cracks in half, sending fissures shooting through the glass and shattering it onto the sill. The noise wakes up Waylon and he starts barking in the hallway. Using the larger chunk of porcelain, I knock the remaining shards out of the window and then I start ramming it into the screen.
After a few hits, the screen pops out and falls to the ground. I grab my bag and chuck it out the window into the grass, then carefully step through the glass-laden carpet, hoping to God a shard doesn’t get stuck in the bottom of my Vans and slice into my foot. There’s no graceful way to do it. Head first, I reach out the window to the exterior portion of the sill where there’s no broken glass and grab the edge of the siding. Then I bring one leg up and try to step out onto the same ledge. Keeping crouched so I don’t bump my back against any remaining glass on the top of the frame, I half jump, half roll out the window .
I land and stumble over onto the grass, but escape without any cuts. Whipping my head around, I scramble up, grab my bag, and run as fast as I can to the driveway. I ditch my bag next to the driver’s side door and hurry to the garage keypad. Waiting for the door to go up, I glance around with my head on a swivel, making sure there’s no one around. The extra house key is hidden exactly where it should be and I’m back inside the house in seconds.
Waylon stares at me with curiosity as I run to the front door and grab my bag, making sure my keys and phone are still inside. I swing the bag over my shoulder and then skid to a stop. My personal laptop is sitting on the island. I rush over and grab it, sliding it into my bag, and then pause again.
You might not be coming back here. Ever.
Gazing around for a few seconds, I make my way to the bookcase and scan the second shelf. The worn-out paperback copy of The Outsiders sits next to an even more worn-out and older copy of The Sun Also Rises. I grab both from the shelf, lamenting the fact that I have to leave all my other books behind. Then I reach again and grab the first edition of Carrie , a lump rising in my throat. At least I remembered these—my favorite book that made me want to be an author, my mom’s book she picked my name from, and the one from Colson…
I slide them into my bag and then look around again, my gaze falling on the closet door next to the entryway. There’s a safe box on the top shelf of the closet that contains all of our important documents. I drag a chair over from the kitchen and climb onto it, reaching for the box, big enough to hold file folders. I assume it’s heavier than it is, and when I lift it, it slams into the ceiling and dislodges the hatch to the attic crawlspace.
“Shit!” I shriek as the hatch falls out of the ceiling, throwing a puff of dust in my face.
I drop the safe box and it tumbles to the floor with a crash, along with the crawlspace hatch. Brushing dust particles off my cheek, I jump down and throw open the box, rummaging through it until I find a black leather passport holder that also holds my social security card and birth certificate. I slam the box shut again and throw the documents into my bag.
I’m about to leave the entire mess behind when I look up and see a sliver of a box sticking out over the edge of the crawlspace hole. It's only odd because, to my knowledge, nothing is stored up here because it’s too inconvenient and the basement has ample space. I should just go, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I climb back up onto the chair. If Bowen was here, I think he would’ve made it known by now.
I reach up and slide the edge of the box to the side. It’s surprisingly light and easy enough to pull down, unlike the safe box. When I set it on the floor and tug open the flaps folded in on one another, I’m not even sure what I’m looking at.
There are two plastic bags; a rolled up black trash bag about a foot long and another white one rolled up in a similar fashion. Underneath the bags are an envelope and a few pieces of folded up white paper. I set the bags aside and pick up the envelope. Inside are two photos and two sheets of notebook paper.
When I unfold them, I realize it’s a letter.