Take Me With You(82)

I make my way downstairs to the first level. A cursory search tells me this will go nowhere, and he could turn up any minute. I look down at my shirt and realize the only things that likely survived Sam's tantrum are my dresses. Then sorrow pinches my heart. The baby. I couldn't bear to look at it. As far along as I was, I probably would have been able to tell the sex, but I have no idea. I've always been conflicted about the child growing inside of me. A symbol of my captivity. Of loss. But also a new life. A blessing. Hope. That baby changed things here dramatically. And maybe that was its purpose, to transform things here, not to live.

I've learned since being here to live in the pain, to go through it. Not hide from it or run around it. And going back there is just that. It's just another pain I have to live through.

I find a paper and pencil and leave him a note.

I don't want to wear t-shirts all day, so I've gone back to my cabin to get my dresses. I'll be back in a jiffy. I know your instinct is to chase me. And you can. But you'll just find me rummaging through a mess for my favorite things. Remember, TRUST.

I follow the path to the cabin confidently, reaching it in record time. I can tell an animal scavenged through some of my dry goods and the dish he dropped and I grow nauseous. Our baby. I run inside but it's gone. The blood spot is still there, but spread as if someone tried to clean it up. I tell myself Sam took care of it. I can't allow myself to think an animal came here and ate the tiny corpse. In another time, the mere thought of something like that would have turned me into a heaping mess of tears, but I am toughened now.

I solemnly pick through my things, hoping animals it didn't urinate on them. I rifle through the debris, mourning the record player and torn books. But I manage to pull out all of my dresses from the rubble. Some could use a cleaning, but they are in decent shape. I dust off some random crap from them, when the light glints on something. The Bee Gees record. The first thing he brought to me. It seems to have slid innocuously to the floor behind the table that was holding the record player, now on its side. I smile and grab it. A token of when things began to turn for the better. I think to myself that I will get him to learn the dance. And maybe one day we'll go to the movies together.

We can start over. We can leave here and then he won't have to hide me. We can't get to the place we both want to be until the shadow of our past isn't hovering over us.

I hold onto the record, thinking about my outlandish—or not so outlandish—proposal. Lost in thought, I hear Sam's familiar footsteps crunch against the scattered food on the steps outside my door.

I roll my eyes satisfied that Sam found me doing exactly what I said I would.

“What happened to trust?” I ask, as he enters, my back still facing away from the door.

The feet stop moving, and he's silent. But I am used to that. I have to look at him in order to communicate, either through gestures or notes, so I spin on my heels.

But the person in front of me isn't Sam.

We stare at each other for seconds that seem frozen. He seems just as shocked as me.

I still have that initial instinct to beg for help, but I think about Sam, and what will happen to him if I do. After all this, it feels like a betrayal.

As I stare the familiar face, searching my memory for who he could be. I haven't seen anyone other than Sam for so long, but this man's face feels relatively new. As if I hadn't first seen him that long ago.

He takes a big gulp; I can see from the way he struggles to speak that his mouth is dry.

“Are you…Vesper Rivers?” he asks.

Am I? I have her face, her body, her hair and eyes, but am I the girl that was taken months ago? I don't know anymore. If he's here to save me, he wouldn't be returning her, he'd be bringing back a stranger.

But lying doesn't seem like an option, and I nod hesitantly.

He lets out a heavy breath and stumbles back. “I'm…I'm sorry,” he says, stepping back outside, feeling for the door.

“Who are you?” I ask desperately, confused and frightened by his reaction.

“I…I have to go,” he stammers, shutting the door.

“Wait!” I shout, pounding and pushing against the door as he locks it. “Who are you?” I shout. But as I am so accustomed to, I am met with silence.

I pace back and forth, trying to place the face. It's so familiar. Then, with the intensity of a lightning strike it hits me all at once. I rummage through my things for pieces of the news clippings I tore during one of the times Sam taunted me. I had gathered some and hidden them under my mattress early on. In case I had died but someone found this place, there would be a clue. I scatter them on my messy bed, and frantically piece them together. And that's when I confirm what my gut already knew. There is an image of the press conference. Below, a caption listing the people in it from left to right. The man who just locked me back in my cabin is the man who is supposed to save me: Sheriff Andrew “Scooter” Hunter-Ridgefield.





There's an unlikely calm in my truck as I drive back from the butcher. Is this what freedom feels like? I can't remember the last time I didn't feel like a prisoner to my urges. Last night, I realized this could be it. I might not have to live with the constant tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I watched the house for fifteen minutes before leaving. Trust doesn't mean I have to be completely naive. But Vesp didn't leave. I could see her go from room to room through the windows. I expected that. She's starving to know more about me, and it doesn't upset me.