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In the rooms I’ve had access to, anyway.

The guy might as well not even exist, and I’m guessing that’s intentional.

Passing time in this place is like counting the cracks in Purgatory, waiting for something. Some news. Some explanation, or reason, for keeping me here. In spite of my being free to move about the boat, it’s a prison, with its gator-infested waters and small stretch of woods that’s probably crawling with all sorts of venomous snakes and animals that are foreign to me.

And for what? Because some emotionally detached germophobe claims that bad people are after me?

What the hell does that even mean at this point?

In the few, brief moments of passing, the last few days, when I’ve asked him to elaborate, all I’ve gotten in return are grumbled sounds of irritation and some short, cold response, before he exits the room.

As much as I appreciate having a place to stay, where I don’t have to worry about those big-ass rats I read about--nutria, they call them--or some random, Louisiana bug crawling into my sleeping bag, I didn’t come all the way down here to be some lonely swamp captive. And at this point, I don’t even know if the guy is telling so much as the truth. He could’ve made this whole thing up just to keep me here. For what? I don’t know, given he hasn’t done much of anything the last week, except growl and mutter something under his breath whenever he’s around me.

What if he’s biding his time, though? Waiting for something? Where I come from, people don’t just go out of their way to do something nice, and Thierry doesn’t strike me as the ambassador of goodwill. He strikes me as a conman. A slick and savvy thief.

And I think I’ve just about overstayed my visit here.

I want my truck back. If only so I don’t feel entirely trapped in this place, even if there is no place to park it here. Maybe I could come up with an excuse--a girly excuse, like needing tampons--to get him to take me into town. Wouldn’t be too far off, seeing as I’m due for my cycle in another week, or so. It’s always been slightly off—every five weeks, instead of four. Sometimes, I don’t even have one. Regardless, I need an escape plan, in case things get weird with him.

Across from the dock, Moses emerges from the water, treading lethargically up onto the shore to a patch of grass, where he settles in the sun. All I can do is scowl at the little bastard. Big bastard, actually. Staring down at my reflection in the water, I dare myself to dip a foot in. One toe. At least if a gator chewed it off, there’d be an excuse to leave the boat for a hospital.

Except, I’d probably bleed to death before Thierry returned.

At the sound of a distant screech, I snap my head towards the woods. High pitched, throaty, it carries an air of panic and maybe even pain.

A rush of adrenaline has my heart thumping like a stampede of rhinos in my chest, and jumping to my feet, I head inside the boat, eyes searching for the knife block he apparently hid away with everything else. Instead, I tear through the silverware drawer for a friggin’ fork, before slamming back through the door, toward the woods. A fucking fork. Perhaps the most idiotic weapon I could’ve grabbed, but at least I’m not completely unarmed—or unforked.

Prongs steady in hand, I stalk through the trees, scouring not only for the source of sound, but any snakes hiding in the brush. Soft black earth and roots poking up from the dirt make for an unnerving trek in bare feet.

Spotting movement ahead, I squint to see a feminine form sprawled out on the ground, waving me over. “Help! Please!”

Jo. The crazy cleaning lady.

Shoulders slouching, I lower my ridiculous weapon and trudge over fallen branches that poke the soles of my feet, passing suspicious patches I’m certain I’d hide beneath, if I were a snake.

Once close enough, I glance around the surrounding woods and look her over for any obvious wound. “What happened?”

“I fell. Chasin’ after a damn chaoui dat got to my chickens.”

“Chaoui?”

“’Coon,” she explains.

I nod toward her foot. In spite of the ear-piercing calls for help, it doesn’t look to be twisted wrong. “Think you can stand up on it?”

She reaches out a hand for me. “I don’ know. Can you help me?”

The hairs on the back of my neck tingle, the way they do when I get a sense about things. With a small bit of reluctance that I’m sure she’s picked up on, I reach down.

The moment she grips my arm, she tugs me close and tucks her feet up under her, as she scrambles to her knees. “He’s a killa’. Dat man killed before, chère, and I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t safe for you to stay wit’ him.”

Frowning, I pry my arm loose and step back, but she lunges for my leg.

“I’m beggin’ you. Please. I can help you get away from him. I can take you somewhere safe.”

“Get the fuck off me, before I separate your hand from your arm.”

As if collecting herself again, she releases me and lowers her gaze. “I’m not try’na scare ya. I jus’ don’ wanna see you hurt, is all.”