“Let me go!” I howl.
Parker shoves me to the floor so fast the world inverts, my body slamming against the shaggy beige carpet. With my hands bound, I can’t even brace, can’t even catch myself. I roll to my side, gasping, before forcing myself upright into a seated position, hair stuck to my wet face.
“My bad,” he mutters quickly, holding both hands up in innocence. “I don’t want to have to be rough with you, Imogen. But you were resisting.” He paces, then slaps his flattened palm against his forehead. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” he erupts. “I was going to come to you tonight. Properly. I’ve been practicing…
waiting for the right moment.”
He drops to his knees in front of me, anger drained from his face—replaced by a terrifying softness. Sweeping hair off my face, a new admiration in his eyes, he adds, “I’ve dreamt about getting you into my bedroom for years.” He smiles tenderly. “And here you are.”
He says it like I came here willingly. Like I’m not trussed up on his floor, horrified.
My grimace deepens. “Years? What are you talking about? And where’s my sister?” It comes out almost animalistic, rabid.
He doesn’t answer. He just stands and continues pacing the carpet, running his hands through his hair, muttering soundless fragments like he’s rehearsing lines, or thinking aloud.
I scan the room for escape routes, my bound wrists scorching with each twitch of effort.
There’s a queen bed made up in navy sheets, a dark wood desk with a neatly arranged computer, and a single window overlooking the forested backyard. The latch is snapped down tight, a meshscreen stretched over the other side like a second layer of prison bars. Beyond it, the storm thrashes the small strip of woods behind the house, branches clawing the air.
I try to map out a route: launch myself to my feet, dart for the door. But I’d have to turn around to use my hands, and even if I somehow twisted the knob, he’d be on me before the door even cracked. The window is no better. I wouldn’t get the lock undone, the screen popped, and my body squeezed through before he’d drag me back in. There’s no way out. Not yet.
Looking back at Parker, I can tell he’s locked in some private war, body stiffened, jaw twitching, trying to figure out what to do with me. Finally, he faces me again, straightening the hem of his black sweater, like he wants to put his best foot forward.
“I’ve always loved you, Imogen,” he says, sitting on the carpet again, crisscross now, his knees inches from mine. “Since we were kids. You welcomed me in when no one else did.”
My eyes scatter, trying to land anywhere but on his. Trying to remember, to understand how he could twist those brief days of childhood into this. We barely knew each other before it happened. He hadn’t even started at Blair Elementary yet.
“You love me?” I ask, voice cracking. “You don’t even know me. You’re just someone who assaulted me as a kid. I didn’t even like you then.” I’m crying again, thinking of it. Wondering how the hell I ended up here.
“Oh, Imogen, don’t cry,” he says kindly, leaning over to wipe a tear off my cheek, sweeping my pesky bangs out of my eyes, tucking a strand behind my ear. Like we’re lovers and not captor and captive. “And don’t say things you don’t mean.”
Revulsion shivers through me. I want to smack his hand away. I want to kill him.
“I do know you,” he continues. “I know… how nice you are to your customers at Bar Henry. You treat them like family. I know the way you remember their names, their favorite drinks… I know you stand at your window every night when you get home, looking down at the street before you close the blinds. Like you’re tucking the world in… wishing it good night. And sometimes,” he says, a smile creeping across his face. “Sometimes I hoped you’d see me. Just once. Just one admiring glance. But you never did. So I had to come here. To help you see me.”
He’s… been watching me, following me. Even in Seattle.
My teeth are sinking so deep into my lower lip that I bleed. I suck the blood away.
I glare up at him. “It’s been you? Coming into my mom’s house? Hiding in the attic?”
Parker’s eyes drop to his shoes like I’ve complimented him, not accused him. He looks bashful, lips curling. “With the key left outside… how could I not?”
A fresh sting burns the backs of my eyes as the memory hits. How I accused Rory of stealing it. When really, he’d found it. After Parker must have dropped it.
He studies me. “I know what you’re thinking about. You’re thinking about the Holloway boy. How you told him off.” He laughs. “I heard the whole thing. It was awesome.” His smile vanishes quicker than it formed. “I also saw what you did with him. And on the floor of your mother’s house like someone… cheap. It was… unlike you.” He swallows, rage taking over. “It made me much angrier than when I saw you down in the rowboat together. I was in your house, waiting for you. And you were off with this… fucking loser.”
Parker grabs my face and I squeal. He runs his thumb against my cheek. “He’s never going to be good enough for you. No one will. No one but me.”
I nearly spit at him. “And Frank Martin? The fake Facebook profile? That was you?”
He shrugs, fingers tangled in my hair, petting me. “I needed to get you out of the house somehow. I needed more time… to work up the courage to come talk to you.”
I blink away tears. “You’re sick,” I whisper. “I mean, you’re really sick.” My voice gets louder, angrier. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t know you. I will never know you. We will never be together. Thisthingyou think is between us is something your sick fucking head concocted.” I can’t even pretend to play his game. The words are flying out of my mouth. “Now where is my sister?” I howl, hoping Amelia will hear me. Wherever she is.
A slap lands so hard it whips my head sideways. Fire blazes across my cheek; my mouth falls open in shock.
Parker stares at his shaking hand, palm up as if it betrayed him. “You made me do that. Why are you making me hurt you? You’re saying things you don’t mean. You don’t mean any of it. I know you don’t, Imogen!” He turns his head to the door. “Mother!”
