Chapter Four #2
“After the pastor called him, he showed up at my apartment that night. Calm. Smiling.” My fingers traced the rim of the forgotten mug. “He said I needed help. Professional help. Said he’d make arrangements. For my own good.”
Samson gripped his mug again and for a moment I thought the ceramic might shatter.
“I should have fought harder.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Should have screamed louder. Should have --”
“No.”
The single word cut through my spiraling thoughts.
“Men like him build their traps so carefully victims blame themselves.” His voice remained even, but fury simmered beneath the surface. “Every exit blocked. Every cry for help undermined before it’s even made.”
His perception struck me silent. He understood without my having to explain further.
“I’ve tried to escape before. Out a bathroom window.
Jumping out of his car. But he always caught me.
The last time, he reported me to the police as a missing person and told them I was suicidal and mentally unstable.
” I ran a hand through my hair. Things had been far from easy, but this time, I’d managed to stay out of his grasp.
Samson rose from his chair with controlled deliberation, a movement born of restraint rather than calm. He moved to stand by the fireplace, adding another log to the dying embers. The flames caught, illuminating the hard planes of his face as he straightened.
I watched the fire rather than him. “I finally saw my chance again. Annual Founder’s Day Festival. Every cop in the county was directing traffic, managing crowds. I slipped out during the fireworks. Kept to the woods. Avoided roads.”
The memories of those desperate hours crashed over me -- branches tearing at my clothes, thirst clawing at my throat, the constant terror of footsteps behind me.
“I made it at least a few miles before he caught up.” I swallowed hard, remembering it so vividly.
“Got away again when his radio called him to another sighting. Thank goodness his department had been short-staffed, and he’d had no choice but to respond.
It ended up being a false alarm, but it gave me time. ”
Samson turned from the fire, his expression contained but his eyes burning.
“I’ve never told anyone all of it before,” I admitted, suddenly uncertain. “Maybe it doesn’t sound as bad when I say it out loud. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe --”
“I believe you,” Samson said, the three simple words hanging in the air between us.
Something broke inside me -- a dam holding back doubt and self-recrimination. Tears filled my eyes, blurring the edges of the room. My shoulders dropped, the tension finally gone. The breath I’d been holding -- perhaps for months -- escaped in a shuddering exhale.
“You believe me,” I repeated, the words unfamiliar on my tongue.
Samson moved closer, lowering himself to one knee beside my chair so our eyes were level. Nothing looming, nothing threatening.
“Every word,” he confirmed, his voice low and certain. “Every Goddamn word.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, aware of how small the gesture looked -- a child’s movement, not a woman’s.
But Samson didn’t seem to notice or care.
He simply remained there, solid and present, while something fundamental shifted in my understanding of the world.
Someone believed me. Without question. Without doubt.
For the first time in since this horror started, I felt the weight on my chest begin to lift.
Words came easier now, rushing out like water through a broken dam. The shadows lengthened across Samson’s cabin as I told him everything.
“The festival was perfect cover,” I explained, hands wrapped around a fresh mug of tea Samson had silently prepared while I talked. “Everyone in town gathered at the park. Fireworks at dusk. I’d been planning it for weeks, hiding supplies in my work locker. Small things he wouldn’t notice missing.”
Samson sat across from me again, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. The fire cast half his face in shadow, the other half in golden light.
“When the first explosions started, I slipped behind the portable toilets, changed clothes, and cut through the cemetery at the edge of town.” The memory of terror mixed with triumph remained sharp.
“Kept to the tree line along County Road 16. Ditched my phone in a passing truck at the first intersection -- an old trick I read about. Hoped it would send them in the wrong direction.”
“Smart,” Samson commented.
I shook my head. “Not smart enough. If I had been, I wouldn’t have been caught so many times.
When he…” I swallowed hard. “When he zip-tied me. Said he was taking me somewhere ‘secure.’ Somewhere I could get help. A call came in about a multi-car pileup on the highway. The deputy had to respond. The chief was strapping me into the back of his personal vehicle when another call came through.”
Samson stayed perfectly still, focus locked on me.
“He cuffed me to the door, left the engine running. Said he’d be right back.” Pride crept into my voice despite everything. “He didn’t notice I’d already worked one hand partially free. The moment he was out of sight, I managed to slip the rest of the way out.”
Samson’s eyebrow rose slightly -- surprise or respect, I couldn’t tell which.
“Learned the trick from a book,” I admitted. “Hurt worse than I expected.”
“Then what?” Samson prompted when I fell silent.
“Ran. Again. Deeper into the woods this time. No food. Creek water whenever I could find it.” The exhaustion from those days hit me all over again as I spoke.
“Last night, I heard dogs. Tracking dogs. In that moment, I knew I had to find a road and try to hitchhike out of county. I made it to where you found me before my body finally gave out.”
Samson leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Who would he send after you?”
The question shifted something between us -- no longer story but strategy. I straightened, mind clearing as I assessed the threat.
“County has fourteen deputies, all loyal to him. State police respect his jurisdiction. He has friends in three surrounding counties’ sheriff departments.
” I counted resources like enemy combatants.
“Volunteer search and rescue team. Hunting club with tracking dogs. Church prayer chain that functions as an intelligence network.”
“Civilian allies?”
“Most business owners in town. Definitely the bank manager, gas station owner, and motel clerk.” I ran through the mental list I’d compiled during my planning. “Pastor Ryan. The Parker brothers who run the trucking company. Half the town volunteer fire department.”
Samson processed this information with the focus of someone mapping terrain before battle. “Communications? Technology?”
“County-wide radio system. Access to cell tower data through police resources. License plate readers on major highways.” I hesitated. “And he has my DNA, fingerprints, and current photo in the system. Missing person’s report is probably already distributed statewide.”
A muscle ticked in Samson’s jaw as I laid out the full extent of the resources arrayed against me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the weight of what I’d brought to his doorstep suddenly overwhelming. “I’ve put you all in danger. Your club. Your home.”
Samson rose. His back to me, shoulders rigid under his T-shirt, he spoke with deceptive calm. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But he has badges behind him. Authority. Resources.” My fingers worried the edge of his cut. “And I’m nothing. Nobody. My word against his.”
Samson turned, firelight casting his face in harsh relief. Something in his expression made me fall silent. “When I claimed you at the gate,” he said, voice low and steady, “it wasn’t temporary. Wasn’t for show. The Kings don’t work that way.”
He crossed to where I sat and lowered himself to my eye level. Nothing looming, nothing threatening -- a conscious choice I recognized and appreciated.
“Promises don’t mean shit,” he told me, each word distinct and weighted. “Men who hurt women always promise to stop. What matters is being believed.”
The simple truth of it stole my breath. In all my planning, all my desperate attempts to escape, I’d never considered the possibility of simply being believed. Of not having to prove myself worthy of help.
“The chief --” I started.
“Is a predator who hides behind a badge,” Samson interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “One who picked the wrong woman to hunt.”
A strange warmth spread through my chest, different from fear or fever or exhaustion.
Something I hadn’t felt in so long I barely recognized it.
Safety. Not the temporary relief of a locked door or a hiding place, but the profound security of standing on solid ground after what felt like years of quicksand.
“What happens now?” I asked, my voice small in the quiet cabin.
Samson straightened, his decision already made. “Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, we talk to Beast. Make plans.” He held my gaze, ensuring I understood. “You’re not alone in this anymore, Callie.”
The weight of those words settled over me, heavier than his leather cut but somehow easier to bear.
“Thank you,” I whispered, inadequate words for what he’d given me.
He nodded once, then moved through the cabin with purpose. I watched as he checked each window, tested locks, lowered blinds, his vigilance a physical manifestation of the protection he’d promised. No wasted movements, no unnecessary reassurances -- just actions that spoke louder than words could.
The fire crackled in the hearth, pushing back shadows that had seemed so threatening hours before. My eyelids grew heavy, the days of running and the emotional toll of speaking my truth finally catching up. I pulled Samson’s cut tighter around my shoulders, sinking deeper into the couch.
As my eyes drifted closed, I watched Samson’s silhouette against the firelight. Solid. Unmovable. The last thing I registered before sleep claimed me was the sound of him settling into the chair across from me -- keeping watch, keeping faith.
For the first time in so very long, I slept without fear of what morning would bring.