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“You’re not going home,” he says flatly. “You’re all the same. You, my father, fucking Callum Griffin . . . you think you can just give somebody something and let them have it and use it and believe it’s theirs forever. Then you rip it out of their hands again, just because you feel like it. Well, that’s not happening.”
Oliver goes back to his tool bag and pulls out a coiled rope.
I don’t think that’s a tool bag, not really. Because why the fuck does he have rope in it?
I think Oliver’s been planning much more than a home repair for quite a while now.
I try to run, but I can barely stand. It’s easy for Oliver to truss me up like a chicken, and stuff a rag in my mouth.
He crouches down in front of me, his face inches from mine.
“Here’s what you have to understand, Aida,” he says, his voice low and crooning. “I can’t make you be mine. But I can stop you from belonging to anyone else.”
I mutter something around the gag.
“What?” Oliver says.
I say it again, no louder than before.
Oliver leans in even closer.
I rear my head back and smash my forehead into his nose, as hard as I can.
“Oww, FUCK!” Oliver howls, cupping his hand over his nose as blood pours through his fingers. “Fuck, Aida, you BITCH!”
Oliver hits me again. This time when I topple over, I sink right through the floor into thick, quiet, darkness.
28
Callum
I don’t have the exact address for the Castles’ cabin, but I know it’s outside of Chesterton, and I know its rough position to the lake. So, I’m thinking I’ll be able to spot it, based off the color and general location.
Unfortunately, there are a fuck ton of little blue beach houses along this stretch of the lake. Plus, it’s getting dark and there aren’t that many streetlights along this route. I can barely tell which houses are blue, and which are gray or green.
I’m looking for Oliver’s Maserati, but I can’t count on that since he might have been driving something else.
I can at least bypass the places that are lit up with noise and laughter and partygoers—wherever Aida is, the house will quiet and relatively secluded, I’m sure of it.
I roll down the window to try to get a better look at some of the cabins that are set back from the road, half-hidden in trees.
Some of the driveways are so faint I can barely see them. In fact, I almost pass one by, failing to see the faint tracks through the grass. Until I smell a hint of smoke.
It’s so mild that I hardly know what scent I caught. Then I feel the automatic reaction—the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my heart starting to race. It’s
a primal, terrifying smell. A warning of danger.
I slam on the brakes, whipping the wheel to the left. I follow the long, winding path toward a double stand of trees. Between those trees sits a small blue beach house that I’ve seen once before in a battered photograph.
Sure enough, Oliver’s silver Maserati is parked alongside the house. The trunk stands open.
I fucking knew it.
I stop my car, hoping Oliver hasn’t already heard the engine or seen me driving up the road. I slip out of the driver’s side and crouch down behind the car, trying to peer around at the house.
I send a quick text to Aida’s brothers. I’m an hour outside Chicago. They won’t be getting here anytime soon.
I can smell smoke for certain now. In fact, over the sound of the wind in the trees, I think I hear the crackling wood burning. All the lights are off, but an alarming orange glow emanates from the back of the house.
