Chapter 7 #2
Tragic, really, but I groan and get to my feet to fulfill my roles as princess and knight, respectively.
“Okay.” My voice comes out in a whisper, and I glance back at the still-closed door behind me.
The screen is open, and in surprisingly good condition given that the house looks like it’s been standing here since the early twentieth century, at the latest. The wooden door itself is solid, but that’s not what sends a shiver down my spine.
No, that would be the trio of locks bolted to the door, all shiny metal, and in excellent condition.
Fuck that.
If Pearl is somewhere here, I reason to myself, she has to be out back here. If she were in the house, surely I would’ve heard her barking.
If she’s alive, my brain adds unhelpfully. If she’s not—
No. Nope, I’m still not doing that. I refuse to entertain that for at least another ten minutes.
The little shed beside the weed-and-flower-patch is the closest thing with a door, though I don’t hear anything from inside it.
But I open the old, creaky door anyway, having to support it and push it back into place when the only things I find are gardening tools that look like they’ve seen better decades.
But finding her here waiting for me with a bow wrapped around her neck would’ve been just way too easy.
And lately, nothing in my life has been easy.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, glancing back at the house.
Movement in a window on the first floor catches my eye, but when I whirl around to look more closely, all I see is a dark curtain partially covering the open space.
The air conditioner kicks on somewhere, making me levitate, and I cast one more fearful look across every window I can see before I’m satisfied I imagined the movement to scare myself.
It’s fine. Or it’s going to be fine as soon as I find Pearl and a weapon comparable to Sally. Not that I can easily replace my emotional support chainsaw anytime soon.
Leaving the shed, I carefully make my way across the yard, my steps quiet on the springy green grass that’s probably celebrating the storms from the last few days, given how parts of it are a vibrant green and standing proud while other patches are dry, brown, and sad about their lack of water.
Staying in the shadows of the house, I look around from ground level, remapping the property now that I don’t have a higher-up view. It was easier when I did, and I’m able to identify the barn and two wooden outbuildings; all of them requiring at least a sprint through open ground to reach them.
“No time like the present,” I whisper to myself, trying not to look back at the house just in case. There’s no point in that, after all. If I stare long enough, I’m sure I’ll find someone staring back at me, and I’d rather get out of here now, rather than wait around for fate to find me.
But…they helped me, didn’t they?
I nearly trip over my feet as I run, my legs protesting the effort.
The two men drugged me, kidnapped me, sure. But they also bandaged my wounds and took me somewhere that’s at least visually a ton better than where I came from.
They kidnapped me. That’s the part I force myself to get stuck on. The fucking sheriff and his really attractive accomplice kidnapped me instead of saving me, taking me into town, and helping me get home.
Though the sudden thought of going home, of having to face Ariana’s sister, Scotty’s mom, and whoever might give a damn about Tyler feels terrifying.
Would they believe me?
Would they blame me?
A pang of discomfort surges through me, and I press my hands flat on the wood of the outbuilding I reached, hating that I had to come to a complete stop as my fingers tremble against the rough surface.
I don’t want to be alone again, but that’s what awaits me back in Nashville.
No friends.
No job.
No place other than my shitty little apartment on West Third, which probably saw its prime back in the seventies.
At least I used to have Ariana to make it seem a little less lonely.
But now, the idea of going back and sorting through the things she kept there once she started spending two nights a week at my place instead of all seven at hers, makes me want to vomit.
“Fuck.” Reaching up, I swipe my bandaged palm across my face to catch the tears threatening to fall.
All of this is overwhelming, and if I let it, I’m going to drown in my emotional debts.
It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but the culmination of everything hits me hard, clawing at my throat like a physical manifestation that’s going to Hilll free from my mouth to show the world my fucked-up shame.
“Fuck!” I snarl again, and I hit the wood hard with both hands, sending a jolt of pain through my palms. I only realize I was at a door when it swings inward from my unprovoked attack, creaking open to reveal a workshop with all the normal things I’d think to find in a farm shed.
A riding mower sitting at the far side in front of a large, latched barn door makes me stop and stare. Its shiny orange finish, with matte black handles sticking up like two ends of an upside-down ‘U’, just looks so…normal.
Like these are normal, everyday people instead of the monsters I’ve made them out to be in my head.
No, I correct, walking toward the mower to run my fingers over the handles. No, I haven’t made them out to be anything. They are monsters. Apparently, Wolf Lake is rife with them, and I need to get out of here as soon as fucking possible.
“I want to go home,” I whisper, but the words don’t taste believable on my tongue.
I don’t want to be alone.
I can’t say it, but that feels far more truthful than anything I’ll admit out loud.
With Pearl as my only lifeline still—hopefully—living, I won’t leave this place until I find her, in one condition or another.
Maybe I’ve trauma-bonded to the dog, and a therapist would probably have words for me about that, but I don’t care.
She saved my life, so I’ll save hers, if there’s any way possible for me to do so.
A sound coming from the direction of the house makes me look up, though I can’t see through the wooden walls of the workshop. It’s just the closing of a door, I think, and even as I stand there listening, nothing else happens. No other sounds, no yelling.
Just that.
My heart speeds up for just a few beats, and I bite my lip, mentally warring with myself about what I should do. Should hide, or keep going, or something else that maybe I haven’t considered yet.
But do I really have a choice? There’s nothing in here that makes for a great weapon, except maybe the hammer on the worktable that shines in the light cast from the sun through a small window. But even that feels desperate.
God, I miss Sally.
Another door catches my eye, one that will prevent me from having to leave in the direction facing the house, and should put me on the path to the next outbuilding.
It’s better than nothing, and I’m heading for it before I can talk myself out of doing so.
Hesitation won’t help me here, and I have to get going before they realize I’m gone.
I have a feeling the two men are a lot better armed than I am, and the gun at Fox’s belt, sitting beside his badge, has gained a permanent home in my memory any time I think of him or the consequences of being caught.
The path between buildings is deliberate, I realize, with a little fence between the buildings and the rest of the backyard.
There are even stones in the ground, flat and worn from rain and time, that march from one door to the next, spanning the whole twenty or so feet of ground.
The second building, another wooden structure, feels a lot less welcoming than the first, with a door that’s a little rusted at the hinges and boarded-up windows, instead of clear to let the light filter in like those in the workshop were.
But I don’t let that stop me. I can’t, when this could be the building where Pearl—
“Come back, little rabbit!” The voice echoes across the property, making me jump off the stone I’m standing on as my heart tries to take flight like a bird.
The voice sounds like Fox, though it’s loud and sonorous, like he’s got his hands cupped around his mouth to make his words carry.
“Come back inside! Let’s just talk, okay? ”
His use of ‘little rabbit’ sends a shiver down my spine, though I suppose it’s better than being called meat like before.
But once I make the connection between rabbit and prey animal in my head, I’m a bit less unaffected by the nickname.
My fingers curl into my aching palms, which burn once more now that I’ve scraped them open yet again, and I glance behind me, ducking further into the shadows of the outbuilding so I’m hopefully invisible to anyone back at the house.
I need to get out of here, though. Whatever grace period I had is gone now, and I have to find something—anything—in this old building to help me escape.
At this point, I’ll even take the screwdriver I picked up back in the auto shop basement, though Sally would be my preference for a self-defense tool.
“Please, please,” I whisper, closing the distance between me and the door and laying my palms on it. “Please, Pearl, be inside.” Silently, I add a similar plea that I’ll find Sally, or a Sally sibling in here too.
The smell hits me just as I make the move to open the door, but it’s too late and I’m too committed to stop now. The stench wafts over me, invading my nostrils and somehow getting even worse.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp, immediately putting my hands over my face, no matter how dirty the bandages are.
Even breathing through my mouth doesn’t work as I step inside, eyes wide, trying to find the source of the stench.
It smells sweet, but sour and wrong at the same time.
Cloying and dreadful, like something fucking died in here, and—
My steps come to a stop when I face a large, tilted wooden table against one wall. Eerily, the space reminds me of the auto shop basement, from the wall of tools to the cuffs on the table that are currently open and empty.
The table itself, however, is occupied, much to my absolute horror.
“Ariana…” I nearly drop to my knees when I see her, and once I do, I can’t look away.
She lies as if she’s sleeping, with her head turned away from me, hiding the gruesome damage to her face.
The blood on her clothes has dried enough for it to look like dark brown-burgundy paint, but I’m not fooled, and neither is my stomach.
“Oh, Ariana.” I can’t even pretend to be surprised, though nausea curls in my gut and floods my mouth with saliva. I’m so sorry, I don’t say. My mouth won’t let me. But I am sorry, because I could’ve—should’ve—tried harder to save her.
But I hadn’t even really managed to save myself.
The sound of the door creaking open behind me takes a few moments to reach my brain, and when it does, I dive for the worktable, finding something—a knife, I realize—and spinning around with it in my hand to face whatever’s coming.
“It’s tragic, isn’t it?” The blond man, whose name I don’t know, stands leaning against the door, his eyes on Ariana. “And worse, it’s a waste.” His voice is empty, making me wonder just how tragic he finds all of this.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, my hand shaking as I hold the blade out between us. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
His blue eyes find mine in the small, dim building, though he barely looks at the knife.
He doesn’t even move or deign to look worried.
He just leans there, studying me. “You shouldn’t be here,” he remarks at last, a sigh on his lips.
“You should’ve stayed where we put you.” With a low huff, like I’ve dramatically inconvenienced him, he pushes to stand up straight and drops his hands to his sides, rolling his neck.
“You won’t like me putting you back in your room nearly so much the second time, I promise you that.
But you’re asking for it, little rabbit, hopping around in places you shouldn’t. ”