He didn’t respond.
We drove the rest of the way without talking. Buildings gave way to darker stretches of fields. It felt smarter to stay quiet. Let him feel in control. Which he was. He had the gun.
I took the county road leading to the Seacoast Inn, but as we got closer, he leaned forward again, close enough that I could feel his breath near my ear.
“Keep going,” he ordered.
I knew exactly where he meant. The hut. Still, I played dumb.
“I thought you said we were going to—”
“Just fucking drive,” he hissed. “About a mile down the road. Then take the dirt road on your right.”
I did as he told me. My hands stayed steady on the wheel even though his gun moved in short, jerky motions every time he twitched.
The headlights brightened a narrow gravel road cutting into the woods. I eased onto it.
Trees closed in on both sides, tall and dense. I was driving straight through a gateway to my death.
At the end of the road, several large boulders blocked the way.
I put the car in Park.
“Turn the engine off and get out,” he demanded.
The second we stepped outside, he shoved me forward, hard, sending me stumbling. It was nuts. All of it. I was still in my scrubs, booties, and even surgical cap.
“Move,” he snapped, pushing me onto a narrow path. “This way.”
At first, it was almost fully black. My foot caught on a root, and I hit the ground. He swore behind me, then turned on the flashlight on his phone. A weak beam cut through the darkness, lighting up the dirt path ahead.
I didn’t have time to come up with an escape plan. But I noticed that he was much shorter than I was. At least a head. I was six four now.
My hands balled into fists.
Anger burned hot in my chest as reality really sank in.
Myers was fucking kidnapping me. Years after he killed Zach. Years after he let my mom rot for it. Years after he tried to kill my grandma. And he was much smaller than me. Skinny. Sickly. Like the substance abusers and alcoholics I saw in the hospital. ICU regulars. Shaking hands. One bottle away from kidney failure.
“Over there!” he barked.
He shoved me toward the little wooden hut I already knew was there. It sat in a small clearing, surrounded by trees. Clouds covered the sky, blocking any moonlight. A warm glow leaked through the hut’s window.
He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door, never taking his eyes off me.
The door swung open, and he yanked me inside, rough, quick. One hand patted me down while the other kept the gun on me.
The hut was a tiny hellhole.
A couch he obviously slept on. A small table in the middle of the room. An old kitchenette straight out of the sixties, yellowed cabinets, and a filthy sink. Empty takeout boxes and beer cans were everywhere. It stank of stale alcohol, sweat, and mold. There was no bathroom. No shower. Just this one dirty room and a space heater humming in the corner.
“Can I sit?” I asked, nodding at the round wooden table buried under trash.
He hesitated. Thought about it. Then nodded.
I pulled the chair back and sat, taking in the space again.
Myers dropped onto the couch a few feet away. He stared at me, sniffing, restless. His leg bounced. His grip on the gun never relaxed.
