Chapter Forty-One
Eve and the Apple
Willow
Butch left her alone for what seemed like hours. The silence pressed in from every corner until she could hear her own pulse behind her ears. The air was thick and stale with the faint, sweet stench of decay that clung to her hair and clothes.
When the door creaked open, she jolted upright. Butch stepped inside without hurry, moving with the calm precision that frightened her more than violence ever could.
He carried a toothbrush, toothpaste, a washcloth, and a small bowl filled with warm, soapy water. Steam curled faintly upward. He set everything on the bed beside her. Then he pulled a water bottle from his jacket pocket and added it to the pile.
It took everything she had not to shrink away from him. Her body screamed to recoil, but she forced herself to stay put. Her expression locked into a mask. His hair was damp, and he wore clean clothes; he’d showered.
There were no clothes for her. She could smell herself now, that sour, human tang of fear and sweat layered beneath the heavier odor of death that never left the air. Her stomach twisted with hunger, but she was grateful he hadn’t brought food.
“There’s a timer on the light,” he said. “I’ll set it for ten minutes while you brush your teeth and wash up.”
He turned and left as quietly as he’d entered.
She wasted no time. Her hands shook as she squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, the minty smell almost too normal.
The first taste hit her tongue, and she gagged.
She breathed deeply through her nose and tried again with more luck.
She dipped the washcloth into the warm water, wrung it out, and began to scrub her face, arms, and neck.
When the cloth grew cool, she dropped it back into the bowl.
“Fuck it,” she whispered and stripped off her jeans and underwear.
After she slipped the jeans back on, she washed her underwear in the soapy water, then hung the dripping garment on the bedpost. The routine felt familiar.
It was something she’d done in prison when the weekly clean clothes allotment wasn’t enough.
Again, she was reduced to an animal surviving by instinct.
The thought stung. Sparks of hatred lit inside her. Fear had ruled her every breath since he’d taken her, but beneath it something else stirred: defiance. He wanted her to be part of whatever twisted rituals he lived by, and she would convince him that she was just like he was.
The light went out. She stared into the dark and lay back on the bed after moving the pillow beneath her head.
She reviewed every word he’d said. Most of it was insane and self-justifying. Then there was the notebook, his “catalogue.” Not just people he’d killed, but people he’d consumed. The memory of his calm explanation made her skin crawl.
He was sick. Dangerous. His eyes had swept over her, but not in lust. It had been colder than that, more clinical. Like she was something he was trying to understand and decide what to do with.
Her mind spun so fast it hurt. Thoughts overlapped, collided, and fell apart.
The one constant underneath all of them was the awareness of isolation.
A suffocating, total aloneness that pressed against her like a physical weight.
She could feel the edges of hopelessness trying to close in. She wouldn’t let it.
Hours later, the door opened again. A smell drifted in. Butch stepped inside, holding a bowl.
He said it was vegetable stew only, but she couldn’t make herself believe him. She stared at it, her throat tightening. Even the idea of swallowing anything here made her stomach rebel.
“My stomach isn’t doing well,” she murmured. She hoped her complexion was pale enough to make the half-lie believable.
“Would you eat if I took you upstairs?”
Her mind flickered with responses. She chose the truth. “I don’t know.”
His gaze lingered, unblinking. If he took her upstairs, it was a test, another step in his strange experiment. He pulled a key from his pocket, bent, and unlocked the cuff around her ankle.
“You will need to carry the food and walk in front of me.”
She didn’t argue. No plans to escape, not yet. That would come when the time was right. She lifted the bowl, the ceramic warm against her hands, and walked up the ramp into the garage. The untainted air hit her lungs, and she almost cried from relief. No rot. No death. Just oil and gasoline.
“Go to the door on the right,” he said, reaching around her to open it.
Narrow stairs led upward into dim light.
“Sit at the table over there,” he said, pointing to a small table by a window. She set the bowl and water bottle down and sank onto the wooden chair. She forced her hands flat on her thighs to keep them steady while the warmth of the room sank into her bones.
The stew’s gray tinge turned her stomach again.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving her.
“Eat,” he said softly.
Her throat felt dry, but she lifted the spoon. Her fingers trembled. The first bite tasted of vegetables with the faint flavor of onions. She chewed and swallowed, her stomach tightening as if it wanted to reject it. Does dread have a taste? she wondered.
He smiled faintly. “Keep eating.”
She kept her eyes on the bowl. Looking at him brought back thoughts of the notebook.
“Take another bite,” he urged.
She obeyed; the spoon pausing halfway to her mouth when she caught the look in his eyes. She took the bite. He shifted closer. She heard the faint rasp of his breathing.
“You don’t like it,” he murmured. “I made it special for you.”
Her voice cracked. “It’s fine.”
His smile deepened. “Then eat every bite.” His expression softened, almost gentle. That was somehow worse.
When she finally set the spoon down, her hand ached from holding it so tightly. He reached out and ran his thumb along the rim of the bowl. Such a small, meaningless gesture, yet her body went rigid. It felt like ownership.
“Would you like to take an apple back with you?”
Her stomach lurched. The thought of returning to that room with the body and smell made the bile rise again.
“Please,” she said quickly. “The smell down there turns my stomach. I’ll sit here and not move if you give me time for my food to settle.”
He considered her, then walked toward a cabinet. She tracked his movements from the corner of her eye. He took down a wooden box, about the size of a bread pan, then reached next to the cabinet and drew out a rifle. She froze.
He rested both on the table. “Will gun cleaning oil bother your stomach?”
Her exhale trembled out. “No, I don’t think so.”
He began cleaning the rifle, the same one, she realized, that had ended Wallard’s life. His motions were methodical. The bolt clicked, and the metallic whisper of the rod moved with a deliberate rhythm. It wasn’t just habit; this was ritual.
Was he trying to intimidate her? Maybe. The weapon on his hip already did that.
But as she watched, she realized his attention had drifted inward, focused on his task, not on her.
The smell of gun oil filled the air and, oddly, it calmed her.
She and Dale had done this together many times.
Her throat tightened. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back.
When Butch finished, he reassembled the rifle and replaced the kit.
“My stomach feels better now,” she said quietly. “And if the offer for the apple is still available, I’ll take it back with me.”
He handed her one from a small basket on the counter. Its red skin gleamed under the light. She rose, careful not to move too quickly, and walked toward the door with him close behind.
The moment the basement smell hit her, she stopped breathing through her nose. She took shallow, controlled breaths and walked to the bed.
He locked the cuff around her ankle again and left.
The light went off and the darkness swallowed everything.
Willow stared into space, the apple still in her hand, her pulse hammering beneath her skin.
Had she passed the test?