Chapter Four
Callie
I’d slept for a short time, but I felt more rested, and now it was time to talk.
The fire had died down to embers, casting long shadows across Samson’s cabin.
I sat curled on the couch, his leather cut heavy around my shoulders.
My fingers traced the bandages on my wrists, the clean white gauze stark against my skin.
Outside, the sun still hadn’t risen, but the darkness felt different here -- contained, kept at bay by walls and locks and the steady presence of the man sitting across from me.
Samson waited, patient and undemanding. He’d given me food, medical care, and protection. Now he wanted information, but unlike others, he didn’t press. A single lamp burned on the side table, its amber glow sealing the room in a warm pocket, cut off from the world hunting me.
My throat closed around words I needed to speak. How did you explain a nightmare to someone who hadn’t lived it? How did you make them understand when no one else had believed?
“Take your time,” Samson said, his deep voice breaking the silence without shattering it.
I wrapped my fingers around the mug of tea he’d made, letting the warmth seep into my palms. The liquid inside had gone cold while I searched for a place to begin.
“He’s…” My voice cracked. I couldn’t say his name. Not yet. Names had power, and speaking his might somehow summon him across the miles. “In my town, everyone respects him.”
Samson nodded, encouraging without pushing.
“He wears pressed suits. Always perfect. Not a wrinkle.” My fingers trembled against the rim of the mug, memories flooding back unwanted. “Silver badge. Everyone calls him sir.”
The charity dinner flashed behind my eyes -- bright lights, women in cocktail dresses, men in ties congratulating each other on their generosity. His hand on my lower back, steering me toward important people. His smile never reaching his eyes when he introduced me.
“I was serving drinks at a homeless shelter,” I continued, the words coming faster now. “Volunteer work. Makes you look good in a small town. He noticed me. Said I had a good heart.” My laugh came out hollow. “Three weeks later, he showed up at my apartment. Said he was checking on me.”
Samson remained still, only the slight tightening of his jaw betraying his reaction.
“His grip…” I set down the mug, my fingers instinctively circling my wrist where phantom pressure lingered beneath the bandages. “At first, it was friendly. A hand on my shoulder. Then my wrist. Tighter each time.”
The memory ambushed me -- his fingers digging into my skin as he guided me through the crowded charity event, leaning close to whisper, “Smile wider. People are watching.” The bruises appeared the next day, five perfect fingerprints I’d hidden under long sleeves.
“He started showing up everywhere. My work. The grocery store.” I swallowed hard, mouth dry despite the tea. “My apartment. Always with some excuse. Bringing food. Checking the locks. Making sure I was safe.”
Samson’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug, but his expression remained carefully neutral.
“Then the calls started. Checking where I was. Who I was with.” The walls of the cabin pressed closer, echoing a familiar sense of entrapment. “If I didn’t answer, he’d be at my door within an hour.”
I risked a glance at Samson’s face. His eyes were darker than before, but his posture remained open. Listening. Believing.
“I went to the sheriff’s office,” I continued, the memory bitter on my tongue.
“Deputy Harper. They hunt together every fall. Deer, turkey.” I rubbed my temple where a headache bloomed.
“Harper smiled, said I was lucky to have someone looking out for me. Said a lot of girls would appreciate the attention.”
Samson shifted in his chair, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Then the pastor. I thought… maybe…” I blinked back tears, remembering the hope I’d felt walking into the church office. “He called him. While I was still sitting there. Said I seemed confused, troubled. Needed guidance.”
My hands began to shake harder. I clasped them together in my lap to hide it.
“Afterward, he got angry. Said I’d embarrassed him. Said no one would believe me anyway.” I stared at my bandaged wrists. “He was right.”
Samson set his mug down with deliberate control, like the movement required precision to keep something contained.
“There was a camera in my apartment. I found it inside the smoke detector.” The words rushed out, unstoppable now. “When I confronted him, he said it was for my protection. Said I needed watching. Said the world wasn’t safe for someone as naive as me.”
The room swam before my eyes, and I forced myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique I’d practiced hidden in bathroom stalls, in my car, anywhere I could steal a moment away from watchful eyes.
“His keys opened my door. I changed the locks twice. Both times, he had new keys within days.” My fingernails dug into my palms. “The locksmith called him ‘sir’ too.”
Samson leaned forward slightly, his stillness somehow containing a storm I could sense but not see.
“The last time I tried to leave town, he found me at the bus station.” The memory of his hand gripping my upper arm, steering me toward his car while he explained to concerned onlookers his troubled niece needed help getting home, flashed vivid and sharp.
“He told everyone I was having an episode. Said he was taking me home to rest.”
Samson’s voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble. “And no one questioned him?”
“No one ever does.” I tugged Samson’s cut closer around me. “He’s the kind of man people trust. The kind who organizes fundraisers for the children’s hospital. Who leads prayers at town meetings.”
“And hurts women behind closed doors,” Samson finished, the fury in his tone unmistakable.
I nodded, surprised to find tears tracking down my cheeks. I brushed them away quickly.
“Town hero,” I whispered. “Decorated. Respected. His picture’s in the newspaper every other month for some community service.” My throat closed around the truth I’d never spoken aloud before. “How do you fight it?”
Samson didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice carried certainty.
“Together,” he said. “You fight it together.”
I looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since I’d started speaking. No judgment. No disbelief. No silent questioning of my credibility. Only steady conviction, strong enough to pull me out of the undertow of my memories.
“He’ll come for me,” I said.
“Let him try.” Samson’s response held no bravado or hollow reassurance. It was bedrock -- solid, unmovable.
For the first time since I’d fled, I took a full breath without pain.
Night pressed heavier against the windows as I found my voice again.
The tea had gone cold in my mug, forgotten as memories surfaced like bodies in a lake -- bloated, distorted, impossible to ignore once seen.
Samson hadn’t moved from his chair across from me, but his presence had shifted, coiled tighter, a barely contained storm gathering behind his calm exterior.
I pulled his cut closer around my shoulders, drawing comfort from the worn leather and a silence offering space instead of pressure.
“Chief Robert Davis.” His name finally fell from my lips, the first time I’d spoken it since fleeing.
It tasted like ashes. “Police Chief. Deacon at First Baptist. Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce.” Each title added another layer of respectability, another shield he’d hidden behind.
“Guest speaker at high school career day.”
Samson’s face remained impassive, but something darkened in his eyes at the revelation of a law enforcement connection.
“The perfect public servant,” I continued.
“He stands at the front door of church every Sunday, shaking hands. Calling everyone ‘brother’ and ‘sister.’” My laugh came out hollow.
“After services, he’d tell me what I’d done wrong during the week.
Too friendly with the bag boy at the grocery store.
Skirt too short at the community picnic. ”
I traced the bandage on my wrist, remembering his fingers there, squeezing when no one was looking.
“My friends stopped calling. At first, I thought they were busy. Then I realized…” I swallowed hard. “He’d spoken to them. Told them I was going through a difficult time. Needed space. Later, I found out he’d told some of them I was unstable. Obsessed with him. Making things up for attention.”
Samson shifted slightly, his massive shoulders tensing beneath his T-shirt.
“My phone… he monitored it somehow. Knew who called, when they called.” The chill of realization had never quite left me from the day I’d understood the extent of his surveillance.
“When my friend Melissa texted about meeting for coffee, he showed up at the café before I did. Sat with us the whole time.”
My hands trembled, and I clasped them together to hide it.
“The town’s small. Everyone knows everyone.
His cruiser would drive past my apartment six, seven times a day.
Deputies would radio my location if they spotted me around town.
” The memory of those watching eyes burned.
“County line was monitored. Bus station. Train depot. Even tried hitching once, but the driver got pulled over for a ‘routine check’ twenty miles out.”
Samson leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The movement brought him closer without crowding me. His control was evident in every measured gesture, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles.
“Chief Davis has a perfect system. Law enforcement, church, business leaders -- they’re all his friends, his hunting buddies, his poker group.” The bitter truth I’d learned too late. “The women know. They see it. But the men control everything.”
I glanced up and found Samson watching me with an intensity I would have found frightening days ago. Now it felt like an anchor in a storm.