Chapter 23 Steffani
“You.”
It’s the man who offered me a lift. Thank fucking god.
Here I was thinking my dad popped two in his forehead, then dumped him in a roadside ditch.
He must’ve escaped, or maybe he turned me over to my dad, then, sensing something was off, resolved to follow at a distance.
When he saw me being dragged into the woods, he must’ve known what was up and come to rescue me.
But then, how did he get the key to the padlock?
My relief dies a swift yet painful death.
“Are you feeling all right?” He’s putting on the same act he did in the car, but I’m not buying it, not anymore.
“Yeah, fine.”
“I brought you something in case you’re hungry. You like chocolate, right?”
It’s then that I realize he’s carrying a milkshake—not one from McDonald’s but one he probably made in his own kitchen, with a red-and-white-striped straw poking out from the whipped cream. My stomach, ignorant of the danger we’re in, grumbles. He smiles and offers me the plastic cup.
No thanks, motherfucker.
I slip the crooked nail through my fingers, like a bitch walking alone at night with a set of keys, and charge him.
Go for the throat, I remind myself, focusing on a patch of skin there.
Go for the throat. But my limbs are still heavy from whatever he used to drug me, and when I try to thrust the sharp end at him, he’s able to easily counter, hooking his elbow around me and crushing me to his chest.
“Bold move,” he says, his breath humid against my neck. “I can respect that.”
I jab my elbow into his stomach. He lets out a guttural “oomph” but maintains his grip.
I struggle as hard as I can—trying to wrench my limbs free so I can gore that nail into his thigh, his ribs, anywhere I can reach, but it’s no use.
He’s too strong for me to fight against. Eventually, there’s no more gas in the tank, and I sag, exhausted, in his arms.
He lowers me to the floor, but not before gently prying the crooked nail out of my fist. He twirls it between his fingers, examining its blunted tip, then clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if to say, well, that’s the end of that, and tucks it into his pocket.
Then he offers me the milkshake again.
He didn’t even spill it.
That’s how much I suck at escaping.
“There’s nothing in it,” he reassures me, “if that’s what you’re worried about.
” I have no reason to believe him, but then my stomach grumbles again.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been alone with a dangerous man.
I need to remember all the tools that’ve kept me alive until now: remain aware of my surroundings, watch for any sudden changes in his mood, and, most importantly, keep my strength up.
I have to be ready to escape as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
Snatching the cup away from him, I take a sip, then swallow, waiting for a suspicious aftertaste.
He sits down opposite me, cross-legged, on the floor and steeples his fingers against his mouth. He’s smiling, satisfied, and that’s when I realize the cup’s shaking in my hands. The whipped cream piled on top slides over the rim and settles, sticky, between my fingers.
He likes this.
My fear.
My dad gets the same look whenever he knows he has me backed into a corner.
I force myself to go still—not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because I hitchhiked all this way so I wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.
Knowing this man is lapping up my terror like a hungry mutt just makes me more determined not to give it to him.
“Is it good?” he asks, nodding toward the milkshake.
“Yeah, sure.”
He surveys the shack, frowning as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “Are you warm enough out here? Do you need any blankets? I insulated the walls, but that might not be enough.”
What the fuck is he talking about? Blankets? “How long are you planning to keep me here?”
“I don’t know. For a few days at least, so if there’s anything that’ll make you more comfortable, you only need to ask.”
A few days until what? Until he lets me go or decides that would be too much of a risk?
I’m suddenly consumed with a desperate need for him to skip past this bullshit and hurt me.
Break my fingers, my wrist, my face, whatever—it doesn’t matter, because that I would understand.
That would be familiar, and the familiar is comforting, even when it’s abhorrent.
If he does it now, then it’ll be over with—that first time, at least—and I’ll know what to expect from him.
“Anything that’ll make it more comfortable,” I repeat.
“I don’t know. How about a bed? How about a television?
How about a fucking swimming pool?” I slam the cup down, and milkshake splatters onto the floor.
We stare at each other, listen to the short, quick bursts of my breath.
Have I gone too far? I start readying myself to run—but to where? There’s nowhere left to go.
Suddenly, he laughs.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says. “No screaming, no sobbing, no begging.”
No, no screaming, no sobbing, no begging, because none of that will do any good.
How often have I tried that with my dad, each time praying it’d be the abracadabra alakazam that would restore him to the man he used to be?
Who taught his little girl how to swing her plastic yellow softball bat, hefting her onto his shoulders whenever she smacked the ball over the chain-link fence?
The porch lamp, surrounded by the papery pulse of moths, transformed into the Hadlock Field floodlights, and the crowd went wild.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by this man. Even psychopaths can remember, from time to time, to be decent.
I look him straight in the eyes. “It takes a lot to scare me.”
“Dying doesn’t scare you?”
He’s a grown man, at least twice my size, but at that moment, he seems like a little kid. Someone who doesn’t understand how the world works, who still thinks in the simplest terms.
“There are worse things than dying.”
His smile falters—just a little.
“What about your parents?” he asks. “Your mother? Your father?” He must notice the way my shoulders stiffen because he keeps going. “Won’t he care what happens to you?”
Yeah, I think. He cares multiple restraining orders’ worth.
A joke, until I realize it isn’t. My dad does care what happens to me.
He sees me as his property; that much has been clear since the first time I noticed that blue Ford Taurus idling outside my foster home.
He owns me, and nothing—not the police, not the courts, not the well-meaning social workers—is going to keep him away.
And god help anyone who damages his property.
“My dad will come for me,” I tell him. “He tracks people down for a living—fugitives who’ve skipped bail. Do you really think he’s going to have a hard time finding you?”
“I’m good at what I do.”
“Really? Then you know he was following us last night.” His eyebrows draw together; he clearly didn’t.
“I spotted his car in the rearview mirror, right behind us in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s.
That’s why I was so distracted, because I wanted to see if he’d trail us onto the highway.
” I take another sip of the milkshake. “He did.”
“Why would he be following you?”
“Because I ran away from home. And he wants me back.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. I would’ve noticed if someone had been behind us—”
“Would you? You might be good at what you do, but trust me.” I lean toward him, like we’re sharing a secret. “He’s better.”
The storm in the backs of his eyes rages to life.
His mouth buckles into a frown; his posture goes rigid.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said anything. I thought that maybe if he knew we’d been followed, he’d decide I wasn’t worth the trouble and let me go.
But that was a mistake—a really fucking big one.
I scrabble backward, a half crab walk, until my spine’s flat against the wall.
This is it; this is the moment it all ends.
Except it doesn’t. Just as quickly as the storm started, it breaks. “Well,” he says. “I’d love to see him try.” He reaches for the plastic cup, then gives me one last smile before leaving the shack. I listen as the chain clanks into place and the padlock snaps shut.
This is all a game to him. He thinks my dad is some helpless chump who’ll lumber into the woods, unprepared, and he’ll get to hunt him down.
And who knows? Maybe he could. My dad’s spent so long thinking of himself as the apex predator, but there’s always someone out there who’s bigger, stronger, deadlier.
I’m unprepared for the little shudder of hope that shoots through me.
No, forget that. If the two of them went mano a mano, it’s more likely they’d end up killing each other, and where would that leave me?
Slowly dying of dehydration in an abandoned murder shack.
Or, even worse, what if the two of them discovered all the things they have in common?
They split a six-pack in the woods, talk shop for a few hours (“What murder weapon do you use? I’m a chain saw guy myself”), then finish off the night by torturing and killing yours truly.
No way will I let either of these men take my life. Not after everything I’ve been through, not after how far I’ve come.