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Her Captor had worn many faces over the years. But she had grown to realize that this one would be the last.
And without her Captor, what would become of her?
She walked over to the window and pulled up the pink blind. While she couldn’t see out through the black glass, she knew that an old iron drainpipe ran down the wall outside. She heard the water trickling through it every time there was rainfall or a thaw. She could tell, even without seeing it, that the pipe leaked a little. Not much. But enough, over time, to have penetrated the wall around the window frame, seeping through the cracks in the mortar and brick, making the interior wall soft and damp.
Using the plastic knife, she had started to scrape away at the plaster around the bars. Just a tiny bit every day. Fragments, crumbs, scooping it out and then loosely packing it back, pulling the blind so that her Captor wouldn’t notice.
The process was painstaking. It had taken months, years, decades. But finally, the bars were beginning to loosen. Just a little. Not enough to remove them. Not yet. But soon. Once that happened, she would break the glass and escape.
She took out the plastic knife and began to dig away.
The murmuring in her mind increased. The tingling in her bones itched.
She was hungry. So hungry.
Often, during her captivity, she had craved the release of death.
But the purpose of all living things is to exist.
And to feed.
11
Tucker couldn’t sleep. Normally, he would crash around dawn and wake at some point in the afternoon. Today, dawn had snuck up on him, casting a silvery light around the small cabin, where he still sat in his worn armchair, next to the cold embers of last night’s fire.
After Athelinda had left, he had come inside and locked the door. Then he had turned on all the lights, lit the fire and sat, sinking bourbon straight from the bottle and mulling over their conversation:
“Why have you come back?”
“This is our home.”
“It’s been twenty-five years.”
“The blink of an eye.”
He had sighed heavily. “How is Merilyn?”
“Dying. But most of her died when she lost her family.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You fucking should be.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Your fault. No, never is. Typical human. Sometimes, I think I should have left you in the forest.”
“Maybe you should.”
A smile. “No, I think I like you better like this.”
“What do you want from me, Athelinda?”
“Talk to the town. Tell them we didn’t kill the boy.”
The boy. Marcus Anderson. Tucker might be a semi-recluse out here in the woods, but he still had his sources. He had heard about the killing. It was tragic. But it wasn’t any of his business. Not anymore.
“They won’t listen to me,” he said.
