He hated women. That much I knew for sure. You couldn’t knock out a woman and drag her into your truck without a hate that ran deep. Who carved it into him?
A mother who rejected him?
A girlfriend who left him?
He looked too young for a wife.
My next thought was venomous: Who cares who hurt him? He was pathetic and weak. A disgusting little man masquerading as a powerful one.
Both voices waged war inside me—the survivor in me cataloging the why and desperately trying to understand him, while another part of me screamed to stop searching for the reason. He didn’t deserve my empathy.
Every woman plays this scenario out in her head from the moment they’re tiny. We’re programmed to fear for our survival. In parking lots. Empty sidewalks. Running trails. I’d imagined getting grabbed a thousand times, but imagining doesn’t prepare you for the choke of a gag and a rope digging into your wrists.
The man walked over to the fire and unbuttoned his flannel shirt. He tossed it onto the back of one of the chairs. Sweat circles formed in the armpits of his white T-shirt. He glanced over at me, and I quickly shut my eyes. Everything inside me stilled. I could feel him looking at me from across the room. His gaze penetrating me. Every sound was magnified. I focused on slowing my breathing and pretending to sleep.
Finally, I felt his attention shift away from me. I waited another few beats before I peeked at what he was doing again. He was crouched by the fire and poking at the logs, trying to put one of them out. He was obviously roasting in here too. The flames threw jagged light across the mask. He wiped his forehead with his arm. Then, he slowly pulled off his ski mask. My heart sped up. His back was still to me so I couldn’t see his face, but I was dying to know who he was.
It felt like forever before he finally turned around.
His face was younger than I expected. Thin and gaunt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Bags underneath his eyes. Darkstubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip. His eyes were wide and glassy, darting all over the place. His thick hair was greasy and sticking up all over his head.
He was familiar ... I’d seen him before.
The recognition made my stomach lurch.
Dawson Miller.
I couldn’t help but gasp at the realization. His head snapped in my direction.
“Mm ... mmmmnn,” I moaned, hoping he’d think I was just making sounds because I was in pain. My heart froze in my chest like a small fist as I felt his eyes moving over me again.
He wasn’t some faceless stranger lurking in the woods. He worked on the third floor of my building. We’d passed each other in the lobby and stood in the same elevator numerous times. I’d seen him in line at the coffee cart. His Apple Pay was always screwing up, so he was forever fumbling in his pockets for actual bills. We’d even had a couple of conversations in the parking lot about the Lakers.
But that wasn’t what made my blood run cold.
Dawson had gotten fired last month and had to be escorted out by security. Everyone had talked about it for weeks. The hush had just finally died down. He’d thrown a fit after getting fired, and according to the lore, he’d thrown a picture frame straight at his boss’s head. A couple of guys in the break room had laughed about it and made jokes about him coming back with a gun to spray up the place. Apparently, he’d chosen another form of violence instead. This one targeted at me.
My mind raced backward for anything I might’ve done to upset him, but there was nothing. I’d barely said more than a few words to him, and the ones that I did were polite. I’dalways been pleasant. Never treated him poorly. Why’d he pick me?
I forced the questions down.
None of that mattered. If I wanted to live, then I had to think like a survivor. Period. Could I connect with him? Make him see me as a person? Would that make him less likely to hurt me? I’d do anything to stay alive. The thought of forging any sort of connection with him made my stomach heave, when what I really wanted to do was hurt him. I’d never felt anything like it before. The rage that pulsed through me was stronger than the terror, but one blow to the head had already splintered me and I was afraid of what would happen if he struck me again. If my skull cracked a second time, would it kill me outright?
Or worse, would I be trapped inside myself, disabled and mute, a prisoner in my own body while he did whatever he wanted with me?
That’d be worse than death itself.
I stared at him across the fire. He was still unaware that I was watching him. His forehead was creased like he was deep in thought while he stoked the fire. He’d been a child once. Somebody’s baby boy. Innocent and sweet. What had warped him into this?
I wanted to believe it was something horrific. Some unspeakable trauma that shoved him past the brink. But what if it wasn’t? What if he was just a spoiled, entitled brat? Another privileged white male who thought the world owed him and that women were his for the taking.
Chapter Five
Iwoke from a fitful dream about my sister. She’d gone over to my apartment to feed Oliver, and he’d shriveled down into nothing but skin and bones. All his ribs were poking out of his side. She ran from room to room, yelling for me to come help her with the dog, and I kept calling out to her, but she couldn’t hear me. It was so awful, and I woke up crying in my sleep. The pillow soaked in my tears.
Dawson was propped up next to the fire. It had finally dwindled to embers. I studied him as he sat there with his head tilted to the side. He wore his ski mask again, but he’d taken off some of his other clothes. His boots set by the door and his flannel was draped over one of the chairs. For a second, I thought he was asleep, but then he cracked his knuckles and stretched his legs out straight in front of him.
Did he plan to stay awake forever? Or maybe time was moving in slow motion and barely any had passed since I woke before. It was impossible to tell. The concussion kept me so confused. He had no clue I’d seen him with his mask off and knew exactly who he was. Could I use that to my advantage?
