Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Falling asleep isn’t part of the grand plan until it is.
Once the apples and water are gone, my body seems to decide that a long nap is next on the agenda, though I try very hard to disagree. After sunset should be my time to plan, not crash out on the bed with my face planted into a soft, cool pillow.
No matter how hard I try, however, my body’s needs win out. Even though, in my opinion, I’ve been unconscious enough in the last week to last me for a month.
But my brain’s logic can’t compete, and I can feel my breathing evening out, my eyes impossibly heavy against the pillow in the room with lacy curtains and a window.
Maybe just a few minutes won’t hurt, I finally allow, before finally losing myself to unconsciousness.
Sitting upright with a gasp feels like breaking through icy water. Shock ricochets through my system, and I dig my fingers into the blankets pooling around me, blinking rapidly.
Where am I?
The dark room doesn’t feel familiar. It doesn’t smell like my room; it isn’t the same, and—
Right.
I know where I am, though my heart plunges to my stomach when I remember. My first real sleep that wasn’t drug-induced or in a dog kennel was the best I’ve had in probably months, but being disoriented and unaware now that I’m awake is unpleasant enough that I’m not sure it was worth it.
“Fuck me…” I sigh, my fingers going through my mostly tangle-free hair. It’s impossible not to remember Fox’s attention from the day before, and how careful he was to spare me any discomfort when he worked a brush through the knots, like…like he really cared.
But he doesn’t care, I remind myself. He’s a literal monster in the middle of nowhere, Texas, who’s keeping me against my will, probably to chop me up and sell off my parts like what happened to my friends.
Then why haven’t they? The small voice whispering inside my skull is unhelpful right now, and I push the words away, not wanting to hear them. The easiest explanation is the one I’ve come up with, and I’m not interested in entertaining anything else.
I allow myself a few more seconds of breathing, spiraling, and working not to panic before I get up, wishing I had my shoes but figuring that being a child who preferred being barefoot is finally going to come in handy for something.
My steps are silent on the wooden floor, and for good measure, I try the window again, though I’m unsurprised to find it locked. Of course this wouldn’t be as easy as it was earlier, if one could call that easy.
The door, however, isn’t locked. It’s a marvel that I can just go out at my leisure, and I pause in the dark hallway, my heart pounding in my ears. Is it really this easy? Couldn’t I just stroll around the house, find a weapon, and force my way out one way or another?
Surely the fuck not.
Slowly, carefully, I walk down the hallway, placing one foot in front of the other so I make no sound at all. There’s a light on at the far end, near the large bathroom I was in earlier, so I avoid that like the plague and instead go toward the stairs I went down when the sun was up.
Unfortunately for me, the Shaws don’t believe in nightlights. Or maybe they just don’t need them. Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fox and Deacon can see in the dark, and it’s my fault for not being evolved enough to do more than stumble around while my hands grope for walls I can barely see.
I make it down the stairs without setting off more than a few creaks from protesting floor boards, but in the dark, the house looks much different from how it had before. Menacing, even, with the high ceilings and large windows that overlook the moonlit landscape devoid of life.
It’s so empty, I think, marveling in front of the dining room’s bay window.
Not in a bad way, though for my current situation it isn’t great.
Under any other circumstances, I’d love the ability to stare and stare without seeing anyone else, to know that I have the peace and quiet to do whatever I want to without judgment.
But right now, I could really use the city streets of Nashville, where someone is always out and about, even if they might not be completely sane or sober.
The driveway outside the bay window winds away from the house between the trees where it disappears even as my eyes try to track as much of it as I can.
There has to be a road or a highway, if I walk far enough, and even if I have to spend the next day walking it until I find help, my first mission is to get to that road.
Surely, I think, people drive by here, no matter how rural it is. Sheriff Fox has to get to work, so the town can’t be that far away.
Every part of the bay window is locked, and if there’s some secret way of opening it, I can’t find it with my fumbling, clumsy fingers.
While I suppose I could do something drastic and jump through the glass, I figure I’m not quite that desperate yet.
With my luck, a piece of glass would slice open my throat and then I’d be just as dead as I would be if I stayed put in the room upstairs.
Reluctantly, I walk away from the window, exploring the front side of the house to search for another way out.
Just like earlier, the front door is locked and latched, the locks standing sentry against my escape and glaring at me with the need for a key I don’t possess.
Or multiple keys, if Fox and Deacon are as meticulous as they seem.
Small whispers in my head point out that if they have this kind of security—doors locked on the inside and outside—they’ve done this before.
They’ve done this to others.
And I really doubt those others had better luck than me in getting out.
But I push that thought away, sweeping my fear under the rug. Thinking like that is going to have me panicking, not being productive, and instead I focus on searching the living room and testing every window I come across.
Still, I have no luck. The hallway door behind the living room that might lead to a side yard is just as fucking locked, with only a few less latches barring my exit.
In frustration, I shake the handle a few times, like I can bully the door into opening even without the right keys.
Then out of nowhere, I smack the door, producing a thump that stings the palm of my hand and has me stepping back in horror.
“Oh, I did not just do that,” I whisper, my head in my hands as I listen for any sound in the dark house. “That was so stupid, Sadie. You’re going to get murdered.” Mentally, I kick myself, my ears still on high alert for any noise whatsoever that will tell me I was heard.
Even though I wait, hiding against the far wall in the shadow by the door, nothing happens.
There’s only the deep ticking of the grandfather clock by the door on the other side of the living room.
My heartbeat seems intent on matching it, and I remind myself to breathe before I pass out and really get myself in trouble.
“Okay,” I whisper, when I’m at least thirty percent sure no one’s coming for me.
Slowly, I sidestep along the wall until it opens up into another room.
Finally, I find myself at the back door, the one under the porch where I so gracefully exited the last few times.
But this time, I’m not so lucky. The door is locked, and once again I’m looking at multiple interior latches, though these look a little older and there’s only two, rather than four.
With just a little hope, I pull at the rusted locks, working to pry them off the door. But the only success I have is chipping off rust and tearing a nail, causing me to yelp and jerk my hands back to press my now-throbbing fingers to my lips.
“Fuck.” I give it one more go, only to be less successful than I was the first time, before giving the door the middle finger in my frustration.
It’s better than smacking it, at least, though not nearly as satisfying.
Reluctantly, I walk away, hating that I’m leaving the last exit I know of from the house.
Every window I try is locked, and even when I test them all again, they’re all so sturdy that they put any of my windows back home to shame.
But then again, I shouldn’t really be surprised. Of course the windows and doors are sealed and unable to be opened by me.
Because the Shaws have clearly done this before.
I can’t let myself spiral, no matter how easy it would be to do. But I also can’t stop the anxiety rising in my chest, and my steps become quick when I rush back into the kitchen to search the counters by moonlight instead of flipping on a switch.
There have to be knives here, I tell myself as I rummage through drawers and cabinets. Everyone has knives. Especially murderers living in the middle of nowhere.
But if they exist, I can’t find them. No matter how many hiding spots I check, the best I find are spoons and forks.
I can’t even locate a damn butter knife.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, standing back at last. I was careful in my search, so the kitchen looks just as organized as when I first walked in.
The refrigerator hums quietly, almost mocking me along with the AC that kicks on.
As if they’re laughing at my struggle, or like they’ve seen this all before.
Maybe they have.
Not knowing what else to do, I finally find myself back on the bottom step of the staircase.
Other than the bathroom and where I was stashed, the rest of the second floor is still unknown, with at least three rooms remaining a mystery to me.
But God, I’ll have to be so, so careful.
I know it’ll be a lot easier for Fox and Deacon to hear me, given that they must be up there.
What other choice do I have?
I suck in a breath, long and slow, before doing the same thing again and again until my heart finally slows to a manageable pace in my chest. Having a heart attack on the stairs won’t get me anywhere, I tell myself. It’ll just get me dead faster.