“Boy? Why would she look for him?”
He shakes his head as he grips the counter. “Someone needs to contact his parents. They should know. There’s something about her, Jill. I can’t put my finger on it—exactly. Whatever it is, it’s been going on since Joey was born, but now...it’s more intense. It’s like she snapped.”
“Snapped?”
I suck in a breath. The unease in my stomach is growing stronger. The contents churn. I stand and stumble backward.
“Jill, how much did you drink?”
My gaze goes to Keith and I lose focus.
It’s as if I’m peering through the lens of a fun-house mirror. My pulse thumps harder. I can’t shake the reality that he’s locked us in here together, that he’s talking about sanity and death. He’s talking about my son.
Leftover—special.
The words repeat in my head.
My attention goes to the room around me. Everything is still out of sync. I see the drawer, the one that I know holds knives.
I’m not sure I can fight off a man of Keith’s size, but I know I’ll try. This is no longer just about me but about my boy. That realization gives me strength.
Stumbling toward the cabinets, I reach for the pull on the kitchen drawer, yet I don’t open it. I look up at the man a few feet away. “Keith, I think you shouldgo.” My words come out jumbled.
“Jill.”
I open my mouth to ask about the girl in Marquette, the one Theo told me about, but I have difficultymaking my mouth work, moving my lips and tongue. He’s moving toward me as if in slow motion. I give up on the possibility of fighting. Instead of a knife, I reach for my car keys from the counter and bolt toward the back door. My shaking hands make the lock difficult to turn.
Keith’s body is behind mine. His hands on mine...helping me...or hindering my escape?
The world fades away.
A distant voice.
“Jillian.”
The voice saying my name is wrong.
Instead of a masculine tone, it’s my mom or my grandmother...
The woman’s voice is the last thing I remember.
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Cold and wet. I don’t know where I am.
I cough, yet I can’t fill my lungs.
Cool waves lick my face.
Slowly, my awareness catches my reality: this is what it’s like to drown.
It’s a conscious thought swimming amid a sea of nothingness.
Death settles like sleep, a warm blanket, a father’s reassurance. Such as a sleeping child, I’m being carried to a better place of rest.
Fighting is futile.
