The haunting howls of wolves forces me to crouch. I cover my head with my hands as their panicked shouts ring through my head. They all yell simultaneously, making it difficult to decipher what they say.
I crab-crawl away from the sink, in case they look through the kitchen window. My back hits a solid wall, and I slide my hands around to inspect it. It’s another door. I yank it open,just enough to slide my body through, and gently close it behind me. My skin prickles from the darkness. The smell of cardboard boxes and aluminum cans fill the stale air.
I cringe. I’m in a pantry—a dead end. They will find me. When they do, I’m dead. I’m so dead.
I plop into a corner, pulling my hood over my forehead, as if it could make me invisible. My mind no longer offers clues to those outside, pursuing me. With my ears, I hear muffled talking. I can’t understand specific words, but I know they’re coming for me.
I don’t know how long I have. Shifting quietly, I wrap my arms around my knees and rest my forehead on them. I stay there for a while, waiting for someone to find me, waiting to be caught.
Chapter 11
Making Friends
JESSICA
EIGHT YEARS AGO:
May 18, 2016: 8 a.m.
Whitemore Plantation
The wolves chase me. Their jaws snap. Low growls emanate from their chests. My arms bleed from long, deep wounds. Pain infiltrates every fiber of my being. My lungs burn, and my heart feels like it will explode in my chest. But I must keep running. I can’t let them catch me. They will kill me. Something stiff tugs around my neck—a rope. I fall backward, dragged. I claw at my neck to pry my fingers under the rope. I can’t breathe. I throw myself forward, hitting my head… on a shelf?
I feel around me. I definitely hit a shelf. It takes a moment to recall where I am. I must have fallen asleep while waiting for my capturers to find me. I’m no longer in a curled sitting position, and a blanket drapes over me. Rubbing my forehead, I carefully sit up, avoiding the low shelf this time.
Grasping around my neck, I am relieved that there is no rope. I lift the sleeves of my hoodie to my elbows. There are no gaping wounds, no blood. I don’t smell blood on me, either. The rough texture of my arm, though, indicates there once were wounds. Questions swirl through my mind.
Then, I remember the hole in my throat. Yep, it’s still there. The front of my sweatshirt is wet. Disgusting! I find the cloth to wipe the mess and cover the hole with my hand.
I slowly stand and wonder, where did the blanket come from? I still can’t see. Everything is a blur of shadows and light. How did I get here? How did I allude those men?
Panic rises from my chest. My heartbeat races. I press harder against the hole in my throat, quieting the sound of my rapid breathing. I smell him, the owner of this sweatshirt. I bring the neckline to my nose and instantly calm down. His scent makes me feel safe. I drop the fabric between my fingers as the heat of a blush enflames my face. Gods, I’m a mess. I’m swooning over a guy I never met.
I startle at a sudden voice.Well, are you going to come out, or are you going to stand in there all day, talking to yourself?
I stiffen, pondering my reply.First of all, I am not talking to myself. I’m thinking. Secondly, the door is closed. How do they know I’m standing?Tentatively, I step forward. Stretching out my arm, I feel for the door and push it open. Light fills the kitchen.
Well, aren’t you a smartass. the voice mocks, breaking through my thoughts.
I look around the room to locate the person belonging to the voice in my head. I don’t hear it with my ears. But that doesn’t make sense. I rub my face and scoff. I am losing my mind.
I know what this is. I’m actually dead. Or am I dreaming? This must be a dream—a literal nightmare—because I have agaping hole in my throat, and my bodily fluids are draining down my neck.
I hear a chuckle. Correction, the chuckle reverberates inside my head.You’re not dead, and you are definitely not dreaming. Now, come closer so I can look at you. My eyes are not what they used to be.
I hesitate and turn my head, trying to recognize a shape or an outline. My left eye senses a little more detail if I turn my head to the right.
Several feet in front of me is a long table with several chairs. Someone sits at the end. A strange light surrounds the outline in an almost ethereal way, and fluffy hair haloes their head. Tentatively, I step forward.
Well, hurry it up. I am not getting any younger, the voice speaks in my head again.
Am I deaf, too?
Not deaf, dear, but maybe a little daft.
Daft? I now recognize the voice belongs to a woman, maybe an elderly woman. She called me daft, as in stupid. Keeping my head to the right, I quicken my steps, approaching the table.
No, daft as in silly, wiseass.
