In Safe Hands (Search and Rescue #4)(47)
Her smile was forced, but it didn’t matter, since he was careful not to make eye contact with her.
“Travel safe,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Thanks again for the books and the dolls.” Daisy was proud at how the word “dolls” came out with barely a pause. Maybe Chris would take them with him next time he stopped by to visit. They could ride shotgun in the squad and terrify criminals into surrendering.
“Bye, Daisy.”
She carefully fastened the locks, one by one, until she was secure again. Alone, but secure.
*
She could hear her mom sobbing, pleading, but Daisy couldn’t see her face. Everything was blurry except for the gun in his black-gloved hand. Daisy shook so hard that her tremors rattled the snack-cake display she was hiding behind. Although she desperately tried to be quiet, the scream built up inside of her, pressing against her lungs until she had to let it out or she would suffocate. The shrill sound escaped, filling her ears and drowning out everything—her mother’s cries, the stranger’s threats, the sirens outside. Where was Chris? Chris always came at this point. He wasn’t there, though. No one was there. The gun flashed, and Daisy knew her mom was gone. Grief blended with fear, and her scream grew louder and louder until the gun pointed straight at Daisy’s face.
She jerked awake with a gasp. As soon as she realized it had been a dream, she scooted to the edge of the bed. The sheets were damp from sweat, and they clung to her skin, slowing her progress.
With a small noise of disgust, Daisy yanked at the material. In her half-awake panic, she just managed to tangle herself further. Her feet caught the edge of her blankets, tripping her as she lurched out of bed. She landed on her hands and knees, the hardwood floor connecting painfully, the throb telling her she’d have bruises later. Twisting so she was sitting on the floor, she kicked her way free of the covers that still managed to cling to her feet.
Finally free, she scrambled to her feet and hurried toward the stairs, whacking her shoulder on her bedroom doorframe as she passed through it. She grimaced, rubbing the spot where yet another bruise would appear. It was like the house itself was punishing her for what she’d done that day eight years ago.
Although she hadn’t had a destination in mind when she’d fled her bedroom, her legs carried her automatically to the training room. Ignoring the creeping feeling of menace emanating from the immobile equipment, she jumped onto the treadmill. Daisy arrowed up the speed past her usual warm-up, needing to run fast enough to get away from the nightmares and the memories and her stupid, panicky, shut-away life.
Running was too monotonous, though, giving her too much time to think. She kept thinking she heard things over the steady burr of the treadmill—a creak of a floorboard or the click of a latch. Every imaginary sound made her jump and flinch so strongly that, several times, she stepped on the edge of the belt and almost fell. Running wasn’t enough to kill her past and present ghosts, so she started a circuit, moving from pull-ups to leg-lifts to jump-ups to burpees to sit-ups to punching the heavy bag to push-ups and back to the treadmill for more sprints. She lost track of how many rotations she’d done, her muscles burning until they finally just went numb.
Numb was good, she decided, as the feeling disappeared from her body and then her brain. She stopped hearing the phantom intruder, her mother’s sobs, a gun firing. All she knew was her feet pounding on the treadmill or her fists smacking against the bag, until either she tripped or her legs decided they were done, and she sprawled on the floor.
That didn’t hurt as much as it should have, either, so there was another benefit to the numbness. With the current noodle-like state of her muscles, she barely managed to roll over onto her back. The high ceiling was white and bumpy, and Daisy stared at it until her eyes grew fuzzy and she had to close them.
She wondered if she’d really damaged her body, if the lack of feeling was disguising a serious injury. With her phone upstairs, Daisy would have no way to call for help. She’d be trapped in the exercise room, possibly for days, until Chris decided to visit. Or maybe he’d never come. He’d decide she was too much trouble, or the sheriff would order him to stay away, or Chris would find a girlfriend who could actually leave the house and go on a date, and he’d marry this non-messed-up woman, and they’d have adorable blond babies who’d wear Chris’s charming grin.
Daisy knew she was wallowing in self-pity, but she couldn’t stop. Her muscles and her mind had nothing left to give, no reserves of emotion or energy to help her bounce out of her funk. She could only lie there, tears seeping from under her eyelids and tracking over her temples. Finally, she took the only escape she had open to her—unconsciousness.
*
The pounding woke her. It was faint, but persistent, and it seemed to be growing louder. She rolled onto her side and groaned when every piece of her shrieked in agony. The floor was hard underneath her, and she reluctantly opened her eyes to see the legs of a weight bench in front of her face.
Painfully, she hauled herself to a sitting position, blinking a few times to orientate herself.
“You couldn’t have made it to the mats before you passed out?” Daisy muttered. She’d never been drunk, so she’d never been hungover, but she wondered if it felt anything like her current state. If so, she’d continue abstaining for reasons other than just because her dad refused to buy her alcohol.
The pounding was getting ferocious, so Daisy stumbled to her feet, straightening her body with a whimper. Her first steps were stilted and uneven, although moving helped the stiffness in her muscles. By the time she reached the front door, she was walking almost normally—normally, at least, for a ninety-year-old woman.