Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For hours, I lay in the bed they gave me and just listen. Every second, every beat of my heart, fills my head with more possibilities for what could go wrong, instead of the one way it could go right.
The way I need it to.
Most of the time, I’m curled on my side with the hilt of the stolen knife between my fingers like someone will steal it from me.
As if it could somehow slip away and fall through an unseen crack in the floor, ruining my chance of getting out of here.
The blade still shines with grease from the meat, but I ignore that, not wanting to let it turn my stomach.
No matter how it was used before, it’s my knife now.
But it’s no Sally, and I’ve never in my life wished for a chainsaw to spontaneously appear like I do now.
Neither man comes to bother me, and I’m careful not to make a sound. Hopefully, they think I’m asleep. Or at worst, that I’m too traumatized to even make a peep for the hours that I lie in the bed, listening to my heart.
Either works for me, really.
But I continue to wait, barely blinking, barely moving, as I listen to their movements below me.
I don’t know what they’re doing, though the back door opens and closes a few times during the three or so hours that I wait.
Absently, I wonder where my phone is. Is it still back at the auto shop?
Maybe it’s been sold by now, wiped clean of my contacts.
Of my whole fucking life.
No matter that Sebastian ruined the best friendship I ever had, I was never able to delete pictures of them. So they were still there, waiting, hidden in the very top of my library for the nights when I woke up in a haze and too out of it to know better than to relive the memories of before.
My fingers stroke along the knife and I inhale, my legs curling more tightly up to my chest. I swear I can see the pictures any time I blink.
Summer vacation after our freshman year of college.
Riding horses together in the mountains south of Nashville.
Some restaurant that Emma took us all to, which ended up being one of the worst places we’d ever eaten.
All of those memories, now gone, forgotten, and living only in my head.
Will they fade too?
Or will I die before they have a chance to?
When the thought stops me cold, I close my eyes hard against the burn of tears. “I will not die here,” I whisper, clutching the knife tighter. “I—” My words cut off when I hear footsteps on the stairs, and my heart lurches when those footsteps stop outside my door.
Please don’t come in.
Please don’t open the door.
Please—
I let out a breath of relief when the footsteps keep going. By the sound of them, it was Fox, still in his boots, outside my door. Out of the two of them, I figure he’s the one more likely to come in, probably with the excuse of checking on me.
It’s another twenty minutes before a lighter set of steps climbs the stairs, and Deacon doesn’t even pause in front of my door. Not that I expected him to. But I still hold my breath as he walks by, not exhaling until I hear the door at the end of the hallway creak closed.
But I know my waiting game isn’t done. Not yet. Even if they intend to just sleep, I have to give them some time. Thirty minutes. Another hour, maybe.
In the end, I wait almost another two hours.
The old, red-lit digital clock on the nightstand reads 1:14 AM before I finally force myself to sit up, the knife still in my hand and warm from how hard I’ve been gripping it.
I can feel myself trembling, fearful, and I go through my list of options, as if there’s any other route I can take to get out of here.
But there isn’t. The doors are locked. There are cameras. I don’t know how to get out of here, even if I make it out the front door. I need a phone and keys.
I need leverage, and a way to avoid being caught again. More than that, I can’t keep sitting here doing nothing. I can’t keep existing in a state of limbo, neither dead nor truly living and not knowing what’s going to happen to me.
I hate the unknown.
I hate this.
The wooden floor of the hallway creaks under my feet, and I stop, eyes closing again. My heart races in my chest, and all I can think about is how the wood feels in the daytime, when it’s sun-warmed, and the lace curtains are billowing gently in the Texas summer breeze.
I could be happy here under much different circumstances. With a dog or six, and chickens, with horses like I always wanted as a child.
I could be happy.
With people who aren’t cannibals. Who don’t butcher people and feed their offal to pigs owned by down on their luck neighbors.
Waste not, want not.
The words echo unpleasantly in my head, and I have to take a moment to readjust my grip on the knife. I can’t let myself think about it for too long. Not when I know their words will start to make sense if I let them.
I know the economy sucks. I know people are poor and starving. In rural areas like this, I know how hard it is, especially in the agriculture industry.
I know all this, but from a safe, cushioned distance.
Fox and Deacon, however, live the reality of it.
And fuck. If I let them, those words will make way too much sense and resonate in dangerous ways.
So I can’t let them. Not if I’m going to do this.
My steps are careful and quiet as I continue down the hallway.
Their bedroom lights are out, so all I can use is the moonlight filtering in from the windows at the other end of the L-shaped hall.
The floors glow a cold silver, almost warning me away from their bedroom door, but I keep going until I’m standing in front of the heavy wood with my hand on the cool, brass knob.
I don’t have a choice.
It’s me or them, I remind myself.
And I will always, no matter what, choose me.
Very slowly, so fucking slowly that it feels almost like I’m not moving, I push open the door. It feels like it’s been oiled within an inch of its life, because it doesn’t make a sound, thank God. It just swings open so smoothly, almost like an invitation.
The windows on the far wall are open, and for the first time, I get a look at the inside of the room.
It’s not quite as big as the closed-off, forgotten bedroom by the stairs, and it looks like it only has a walk-in closet instead of a bathroom, but it’s still bigger than the bedroom I’d been staying in.
The bed sits against the wall, its headboard large and almost looking hand-carved. Lit by moonlight, I can see one shape stretched out, and it takes a moment to recognize that it’s Fox there, face up, one hand thrown over his head on the pillow as he breathes in and out evenly.
But there’s no Deacon.
The realization terrifies me, and I glance around the room, seeing nothing. The closet door is closed, the horizontal slats dark, and I know there’s no way he’s in there unless he knew I was coming.
But that’s a stupid thought, and a panicked one. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.
My silent steps take me quickly across the floor, onto a heavy, soft rug into which my toes sink. It helps me stay silent, and more than anything I pray Fox doesn’t somehow sense my presence and wake up.
I need him asleep for this part.
Kill him, a part of me whispers. Take out one of your problems right now.
I could. It would be so easy to take the steak knife and drag it across his throat, pushing down until—
My stomach curls at the thought, sending nausea shooting up my throat. I’m not a killer. Not…not like that. There’s a difference between driving a chainsaw through the chest of a man actively trying to end my life, and another thing entirely to kill someone while they’re sleeping.
I’m just going to threaten him. I need his keys, and then I need to lock him and Deacon somewhere that they can’t come to kill me later.
Carefully and as quietly as humanly possible, I Hilll onto the bed, trying hard not to let it dip too much under my weight. With slow, slightly awkward movements, I finally end up straddling his hips, though it’s not quite where I intended to be.
Still, I tell myself, this is the best place to be when he wakes up. I’m here, looming over him, and when I place the knife delicately to his throat, I tell myself not to press down at all.
I don’t want to actually hurt him.
The realization hits me, and I hate how it nearly makes me withdraw from my mission. But…it’s true. I don’t want to hurt Fox. Not after everything that’s happened.
Hell, I don’t even want to hurt Deacon.
Much.
“Wake up,” I breathe, my voice shaking. But Fox doesn’t move, and I try again, only to have my words catch in my throat as my knife trembles against his. “Wake up—”
“If you aren’t careful, pretty girl”—he doesn’t open his eyes, he just lets out a sigh that might be disapproval—“you’re going to cut me. And it’d be a shame to die before I can find out what I’ve done to upset you so much you want to slit my throat.”
“I don’t want—” But I swallow the words back. He doesn’t need to know how conflicted I am over this. “I want your keys. For the front door and your truck. A-and I want to know where Deacon is. I won’t kill you if you don’t give me a reason to.”
When he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark chocolate, almost black in the dim light of the moon outside.
A breeze picks up, fanning the lacy, sheer curtains toward the bed like reaching fingers, but I only tighten my hold on the knife and refuse to back down.
The way he looks at me is plaintive, almost curious. He doesn’t seem mad, really.
And he sure as shit isn’t afraid.
Whatever I expected from him, this isn’t it.
“You want to leave.” It isn’t a question, and it better not be.
“Of course I want to leave!” I snap anyway, my voice rising an octave or ten. “I want to go home!”
Something softens in his eyes and he looks down, his eyes landing somewhere between my lips and my throat. “Sadie-Rae,” he sighs at last. “What are you even going home to, hmm?”