Never Let You Go(107)

My body starts shaking hard, my muscles clenched as I yank and twist my wrists. It’s no use. The knife under the pillow. I bring my hands up. Too late. He’s turning around.

“You’re awake.” As he moves toward the bed, I push my bound feet against the mattress, use my stomach muscles to pull myself up, press my back against the headboard. I’m breathing hard behind my gag, taking quick rushes of air in and out through my nose. I’ll kick him. I’ll lift my legs and kick him in the stomach. I’ll use my fists like a club. I’ll stab my fingers into his eyes.

He stops at the bottom of the bed, slides some shirts into a duffel bag. He didn’t have a bag when we arrived—he had a suitcase. This is army-green, wilderness survival style. Now he’s at the closet, pulling clothes off the hanger. He folds the shirts, places them carefully in the bag.

What’s his plan? He doesn’t look angry, or even upset. His movements are quick and efficient. Not rushed.

He didn’t kill me. He could have, but he hasn’t yet. That has to mean something. He’s taking me with him? Like a captive? I listen for sirens, but I can only hear wind outside.

Now he’s in the bathroom. I reach for the knife, feel around with my fingers. Where did it go? He’s coming out. I pull my hands back in front of me. He goes down to the bottom of the bed with his shaving kit, unzips it, brings out the container with the pills, and pushes them around with his finger. Counting. Then he glances at the water glass, meets my eyes.

“You were going to drug me, just like you did with Andrew.”

I grunt behind the tape, hold my hands out in a plea, then point them toward my mouth, beg him with my eyes. Take the tape off! Let me talk, please! I can explain!

He drops the shaving kit into the duffel bag. “We both know if I take off the tape, you’ll scream.” He still thinks the kids are in the house. He hasn’t checked the bedrooms, that’s why he’s moving so unhurriedly. He thinks he has time. What will he do if he hears sirens?

His hand is in his pocket, something jingles as he takes it out. Keys. Now he’s crouching in front of the chest. I can only see the top of his baseball cap, hear the snick of the lock, then things being moved around. When he stands back up, he’s gripping a gun.

I press myself harder against the headboard, hold my hands out in front of me. I’m shaking my head, making animal noises as I choke on my strangled breath.

He doesn’t look at me, just slides the gun into his pocket, then bends over again and takes something else out of the chest. It’s a photo album, white satin.

“Elizabeth loved this house.” He slowly flips through the album. “We came here almost every weekend.” He touches one of the photos, almost reverently, his hand grazing over the surface. “I heard that women glow when they’re pregnant, and I always thought that was a myth, but when we found out she was finally pregnant, it’s like she was lit with a hundred candles.”

Elizabeth was pregnant? No, how could this be? There wasn’t anything in the papers, nothing came out at the trial. Wouldn’t the police have known?

“I didn’t tell them she was three months along. They might’ve given him a longer sentence.” He puts the album back inside the chest, closes the lid, and rests his hand on top. “Her ashes are in here, with her wedding dress, the baby shoes she bought—pink ones. She was so sure it was a girl.” He looks up at me. “I was notified when Andrew was released. I could’ve shot him as he walked out of the prison, but that would have been too easy. He had to feel like he was getting everything back, his freedom, his family, then I was going to take it all away.”

He’s studying my face, his expression satisfied as he notices my tears. He’s enjoying this, revealing his clever plan, gloating over his brilliance. “You told me everything. You told me about your marriage, and I used it all. You even let me watch as you typed in your alarm password. Sophie’s letters told me everything else. She kept them under her dresser, you know.”

He’d been through every inch of my house. He knew everything about my daughter, our house, had been through our drawers. And I was the one who let him in.

“I’d drive down and watch him in Victoria, going about his day, laughing with guys on the job site, enjoying his life.” He spits out the last words. “Then I saw him buy his plane ticket. He was coming to Dogwood Bay. It was time. You believed he was stalking you, eventually even Sophie believed it. The police would’ve blamed him for your deaths.”

I stop straining at my bindings, this final truth wrapping tighter around me than the tape. All this time, as the months and days sped past, he’d been planning to kill me and Sophie. I sag backward, reeling from the blow, the knowledge. I’m shaking again, my body in blind panic.

“You trusted me so much by then. I could have made it look like he’d tracked you down in Vancouver and killed you there, but then he followed me into your house.”

The rest comes clear. I see him and Andrew standing at the top of the stairs. I see them fighting. I see how much Andrew loved Sophie. How much he loved me.

“I was still so f*cking angry.” It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him swear, the harshness adding to my terror. “What was the point of his death? I had nothing left. I still thought about Elizabeth every second of every day. Then you needed a place to stay, and it seemed right, like some sort of message. Why shouldn’t I take his family? He destroyed mine. I almost started believing I could have some sort of life again. But then you told me about the pills.…” He meets my eyes, stares into them. It’s all in there. His despair, his rage. It was never about me.