Page 21 of The Chain House

Her throat was raw too.

She remembered screaming until her lungs were weak, until her throat felt inflamed, and then his voice was in her ear, the mask inches away, “Scream away, Beth, nobody is gonna hear you. I promise you that.”

It was revolting, hearing her name in his mouth.

And that mask. The same one he’d been wearing twenty years ago when he’d tried to kill her inside the Hawthorne mansion. If indeed it was the same man. But she knew it was. Had to be. His voice had changed slightly over the years, and he’d grown thicker all over, but who, after so many years of aging, hadn’t changed? It was him. Unless he had been a ghost swirl back then, when he’d nearly killed her with the corkscrew, with her being the only survivor to remember him.

She repositioned herself on the hard floor.

Her right calf throbbed like it was on fire.

That’s right, I was shot. Shot fleeing in the woods after her security guard was gunned down on her morning run. How many days ago? She heard footsteps approaching on gravel outside the garage door. Her right calf had been wrapped. Carefully wrapped. And no blood stained the bandage. A hint of hope came upon her like a blessing. If he’d taken the time to dress her wound, perhaps multiple times, it meant he might not kill her.

Not yet, at least.

But then all hope faded into an avalanche of fear, of what he could do to her while she was alive and vulnerable and chained to this pole.

The door started to open with a loud mechanical groan, his sunlit silhouette growing larger as the door rotated up into the ceiling, first revealing his boots and jeans and T-shirt and the mask on his face.

He stood there, his head angled slightly toward his left shoulder, as if analyzing her.

“Good morning, sunshine.” His voice was muffled by the mask. She used her bare feet to push herself away from him, but she couldn’t go far because of the pole. He pulled an overturned milk crate from the nearby wall and sat on it. His legs were long. The bottom of his jeans rose as he sat, revealing crisp, clean white socks and black hard-soled shoes. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. She’d initially wondered if this was the same person who’d nearly killed her back then. Anyone could have remembered her description of him at trial and used the same mask to scare her. But those eyes, she saw now, up close, were his.

She was sure of it now.

“You … know … my … name,” Beth said, every word a painful exhale.

“And so you’d like to know mine,” he said, his large hands hanging so casually limp from his wrists it made her want to scream. “How about you just call me Oliver.”

“Oliver …”

He leaned closer. “Oliver Crown.”

CHAPTER9

SAM DIDN’T SLEEP all night.

After seeing his face plastered on the news, nervous adrenaline kept him awake.

He eventually turned off his phone. A half dozen neighbors from the apartment complex, none of whom he’d ever talked to but at least recognized either from bump-ins in the parking lot or laundry room or fitness area, knocked on his door to let him know he’d been on TV, or had asked him, Was that you?

After the sixth visitor, Carl locked the door and closed the blinds.

Sam had yet to hear anything from his father, but maybe he was knee-deep in the fictional world of Oliver Crown by now, completely unaware his son had become a celebrity overnight. But while Sam hated the sudden attention, Jennifer appeared to take it in stride. Of course, it hadn’t been her face on the TV screen, but, at the same time—as she’d reminded him—she’d had her unfortunate time in the spotlight as a child. She’d eventually turned her phone off as well. While it wasn’t yet known she was helping Sam Harper, her closest friends knew her past connection with Sal Batise, so it was only natural for them to reach out to see how she was doing. She’d told them all, Yeah, I heard the news, and yes, I’ll be watching, telling Sam, as she responded, how hard it was to bite her tongue and not reveal to them all that she’d be at the interview too.

That was the exact moment when Sam decided that, yes, he needed Jennifer Daley by his side tomorrow, and after three more hours of preparation, he’d concluded there was no way he could do it without her. Even Carl had bypassed his weekly D&D game to stay and help however he could. And because Sam simply couldn’t stop shaking, and it had only grown worse as the night moved along, they’d begun loading their Landshark beers with tequila in the throat of the bottle. By the time Jennifer left, well after midnight, Sam wasn’t far from being drunk but remembered her telling them she’d be back in the morning, and they’d show taillights by eight o’clock sharp. Twisted Tree was a thirty-minute drive east of Louisville and even though the prison had sent directions on where to park and a list of bullet points on visitor protocol, they weren’t taking any chances of being late.

Carl had slept like the bear he was. Sam tried, but never went to sleep. Maybe he’d dozed off a time or two, but at most for only a matter of minutes, and by the time Jennifer knocked on their door—freshly put together in a black sleeveless blouse and white pants and black shoes, with her strawberry blond curls clasped and flowing down to her slender shoulders—Sam was already yawning and exhausted. He felt inadequate and completely not up for the daunting task ahead.

Plus, she was fifteen minutes early.

The first thing she said to Sam was, “Your shirt’s wrinkled.”

He looked down at his shirtfront. Damn it.

“Told you, bro,” Carl said, emerging from the kitchen in a blazer and tie and jeans and eating from a disposable cup of probiotic yogurt.

Jennifer eyed Carl and whistled. “Looking good.”