I shudder, thinking if this happened just a few short months ago, no one would have the first inclination where to find me, but now at least I have hope.
Hopes a fickle bitch,I think days later. My aches have turned dull. I’m more sore than anything. My only real pain comes from my fist and foot. I hurt myself a couple hours ago when another tray of food was slid under the door. I lost my shit knowing another day had come.
I beg Darryl to let me. I barter, marking crazy promises just to be set free.
Angry when he doesn’t respond, I scream and beat the hell out of the door, throwing my body at it and exhausting myself for the effort.
I don’t get a single word in response.
The waiting is killing me. I'm going out of my mind with all the possibilities and scenarios. I almost think it'd be better just to get it over with.
I can't even fathom what he wants from me. What is he planning?
I feel like I’m underground. The walls are thick and cool to the touch. The single overhead light is never extinguished, making it impossible to determine if it’s day or night. A chill that I can’t escape, fills my bones.
I sleep when the exhaustion won’t let me do anything else.
Surely a week has passed since I've been locked in this hole. I've counted seventeen meals and I'd estimate there were maybe ten before I started keeping track. I gouge my nail into the hard-packed dirt floor every time one is slid under the door.
I'm going to rot in this room, never seeing the sunlight again. I’ll never see Beau's gorgeous green eyes again. I’ll never tell him I love him or thank him for helping me live in the moment.
Rita's words haunt me. Her dreams of me living my life and not letting anyone choose what I make of it, plague me often. If I'd only listened.
Some days I feel like the only thing I can do is cry. Others, I'm so angry it feels like I could bust the door down with my rage. In between these days, I return to the begging. I plead to be let out, to be free. I bargain, promising not to tell anyone where I was. I’ve screamed for so long it feels like my throat is bleeding. I get no reply. Not. One. Word.
I stop eating. I only drink the barest minimum when I feel like my throat will split. I’m hardly ever awake anymore. When I am, I pray for sleep to take me. I’m not even fighting anymore because there’s no point.
A noise wakes me.
A shuffle just outside the door.
“Hello?” I try to call. It takes my voice a few tries before the word actually comes out.
“Jessica,” my eyes fall closed at the name. I haven’t heard it in years.
“Darryl.”
“You haven’t been eating.” His statement doesn’t require an answer. “Is there…” he trails off shuffling at the door, “Is there something else you want? I remember how much you used to like that cinnamon cereal.” He sounds just like he used to, after a night of drinking. After he’s either called me by my mother’s name or slapped me around. He sounds like he’s trying to apologize for his behavior.
It makes me want to throw up.
“I don’t want cereal, Darryl. I want to go home.”
I feel and hear the door shake, when he either kicks or hits it.
“It’s not going to happen, Jessica. You’ll never leave me again.”
His footsteps thunder away.
Desolation beats at me. I know he won’t ever let me go, but hearing the words spoken, crack something deep within my soul.
Beau
It takes a full day to convey, to both the New York and Alabama police, the whole story. After finding out Darryl was the sheriff of her small town, the FBI is called in, because there's a good possibility he's taken her over state lines.
Cortez and Hall hand over Tasha’s murder investigation, believing the cases are related.
I can't allow myself to think he might have already hurt her. The guilt is a heavy burden. So many things, I should have been handled differently. I should have told the police about the connection with the flowers, instead of thinking it was purely circumstantial evidence that they wouldn’t pay any mind. I should have told her when Brian first texted me about Darryl being in the wind, and most importantly I never should have let her out of my sight.
