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CHAPTER 40
FLORA
I’M DREAMING OF JACOB. I know it’s a dream, because he’s smiling at me.
“So you met my old man, huh? Tough ol’ coot. Guess the apple didn’t fall far from that twisted tree. Microgreens, huh? Never woulda thunkit.”
We’re sitting outside the cabin where he held me. In the meadow, on a red and white checked tablecloth. Before us is a fast-food buffet. Fried chicken, hamburgers, pizza, waffles. Jacob isn’t eating, though. He looks younger, more relaxed, with his favorite ketchup-stained T-shirt barely covering his flabby gut.
“Home sweet home,” he says, gesturing to the dilapidated cabin behind us. “Miss it?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Then I realize I’m not sitting on the picnic blanket. I’m back in the box, daylight filtering through the crudely bored air holes, taunting me.
“Now, now, I told you what would happen if you disobeyed. You got away once, Flora. You shoulda stayed away.”
No, I’m not in the box. Because I can see him, which would be impossible. But all around me is dark, with just specks of light. I try to lift my hand to the lid, then discover I can’t move my fingers. My arms. My legs. I’m trapped. Weighed down, a terrible pressure crushing my chest.
I’m in a grave. A shallow grave with just my face exposed, watching Jacob from the edge of the picnic blanket.
“You always thought you’d die here,” this new, happy Jacob tells me. “I used to hear you whimpering to yourself in the box. ‘Gonna die, gonna die, gonna die,’” he mocks. “You never were a strong one.”
I try to wiggle my toes, lift a single finger, turn my head. Nothing. I feel a whimper building in my throat, just as he said. Then, I feel moisture on my face. A single tear tracking down my cheek.
Jacob moves till he’s leaning right over me.
“Never shoulda come back.”
I can’t move.
“But you missed me, didn’t you, Flora? You had to see, you had to know. Because the more you learn, the closer to me you become. And now you’re gonna die in my backyard. Just the way I planned it.”
He grins at me.
I hate him. All over again, even as he leans down and gently wipes the tear from my cheek.
“I loved you,” he whispers. “And you’ll always be mine, cuz deep down in your heart, you know you love me, too.”
Then Jacob is gone and Kimberly looms above me. “Wake up! Wake the fuck up!”
She slaps me across the face.
I wake up.
—
THE WORLD IS DARK, AND once again I’m disoriented. I can’t see, but I realize I can move. Arms, feet, head. Dear God, what the hell happened to my head? I moan, and Kimberly nearly slaps me again.
“Shhh!”
The urgency in her tone brings me around as much as my throbbing temple. She’s crouched behind a considerable boulder, peering at something before her. I’m lying in the dirt, where I’ve apparently been dropped like a sack of potatoes. My face feels wet and sticky. I touch my cheek gently. Not tears. Blood.
I have a vague memory of rocks falling and a rifle cracking. I’m not sure which of them got me, but at least I’m alive. Mostly.
I try to sit up. The world swims, then my stomach. Concussion, most likely. Kimberly has her .22 in her hands and is clearly on guard against some immediate threat. I’m going to have to do better than lounge at her feet.
“Knife,” she mutters, not a question, but an order.
I fumble around till I find my butterfly blade. I flick my wrist to snap it open, but my effort is so pathetic, I nearly drop the folded handles instead.
