Don't Look for Me(34)

She checked her phone. Fifteen minutes had passed. Still no fence.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The pain in her legs had moved into her side. A cramp. She never had to stop. Even after a bad night. Even after miles and miles. This was more than exhaustion.

Suddenly she was standing still, buckled over, gasping for air. Her head was light as she sucked it into her lungs. Words had broken free while her mind had been busy fighting the pain. They were free and singing between her ears. The things she’d said to her mother the morning she disappeared. The things she’d piled on top of I hate you and open your eyes! The things that surely had pushed her mother over the edge on the anniversary of Annie’s death.

You killed my sister!

Oh, God. No.

You killed your own child!

No.

She had said those words. And she’d told no one.

Tears came, running into the sticky sweat on her face. She wiped them with the back of her hand and leaned against a tree.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The sky was turning orange. She didn’t have long until it would be too low to help her navigate.

She looked back at the sunset to make sure she’d squared herself, to make sure of the direction. When she did, she saw something shimmer through the trees. She looked again, then started to walk toward it. Another shimmer. The sun was almost at the horizon and it created a glare. But she kept walking, until she was forced to stop.

Evan was right—there was a fence. She stood before it and looked up. It had to be seven or eight feet. There were barbed coils at the top, and smaller barbs lining every inch of the wire. She touched them gently. They were sharp. They were meant to keep anyone from being able to climb. The barbs would shred bare skin and the holes were too narrow for a shoe.

She looked through it but saw only more woods on the other side.

She started to follow the fence, walking alongside. She remembered Roger Booth’s warning—don’t make any turns.

She told herself she would make this one turn and walk for ten minutes, then turn around.

It only took five for her to reach the small hole someone had started to cut.





13


Day five





The door opens and three days of darkness come to an end.

He has been bringing food after dark. He leaves the light off in the hallway. There are no windows in this dark room where Alice was born. Just the sink, a hand-pump toilet, and the tile floor. He’s given me two blankets to stay warm.

I count the days by the pitch of the darkness. Light is like water, always finding a way through the cracks and crevices.

On the third night, he does not bring the food. He waits until morning. When he opens the door, the brightest light pours in behind him. It is so bright it blinds me and I can barely make out his face.

He sets the tray down on the floor while I stand against the far wall. He has made me wait because the last time he brought the tray I was waiting for him. The second night, when I heard the floorboards creak. On that night I stood in front of the door. I heard the dead bolt turn, then the change in the shadows as the door opened into the room. In my hands was a blanket.

Heart exploding with rage, hands shaking with apprehension, I was ready to throw the blanket over his head, pull him toward me, then onto the floor. I had pictured the tray flying from his hands, spilling the food. I pictured Alice screaming as I kicked him in the groin. I would leave them both inside that room, lock the door, and run out of the house. I would take his truck if I could find the keys, or run back to the fence where I would make two more cuts in the wire and then crawl through.

Maybe I would have his shotgun with me. Maybe I would blast a hole right through that fence.

But that was not what happened. On the second night, he was ready for me as I stood on the other side of the door with my pathetic weapon. He stood a few feet back. There was no tray in his hands. Only the shotgun.

I was ready with that blanket and he knew it. He knew the blanket was all I had and he knew I would try.

He knows too much.

Or maybe this was tried before, by the woman who used to live here.

He laughed at me. He ordered me to back away. Then he locked the door. And he made me wait all through the next day, and through the next night, wondering if I would get another tray. Wondering if he was now going to let me starve.

The door opens now, after the third night, and I stand against the far wall. I let the light feed my brain which is starving for it. I watch him place the tray on the floor, close the door, turn the lock.

I stumble as I walk toward the tray. My pupils have narrowed from that quick burst of light and now they can’t detect the shadows they have grown used to. I take the tray and sit down. I can feel with my hands the cold sandwich. And something else.

It’s small and metal. I feel glass at the top. A button at the bottom. I click it on and light floods the space.

A small flashlight. A gift I don’t understand.

I do not deserve a gift after the second night.

I don’t stop to think. I leave the flashlight on as I eat the sandwich. I’m thirsty, but there is water in the sink and I decide to eat first because I am sick with hunger.

When I lift the sandwich, I see something beneath a paper towel. An article from a paper he’s printed out. The online paper from my hometown.

Warmth floods my veins as I see the logo, the letters forming the name, the familiar print and advertisers. Grayson’s Flower Shop. Buster’s Bagels. The Law Offices of Walsh, Sandberger, LLC. It’s always the same. Every day. Every time I open the paper. And for the smallest, most insane second, I feel the safety of home.