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Sal swears as she’s pulled from the trunk of her car. She stumbles, is caught by rough hands. She blinks her eyes in surprise. It’s as dark outside as it was in the trunk.
Her brain tries to remember. She had woken up, what, fifteen, thirty minutes after being knocked out with the butt of the gun? Her foggy mind searches the myriad of sounds she heard when she was in the trunk. The rumble of train tracks. Two sets. No rush of freeway traffic, so back roads. Backwoods? Farm?
“Move, bitch.” The man shoves her in the direction of a small cabin. Sal walks on legs of jelly as she’s practically dragged over the gravel drive.
A groan leaves her lips. Her head hurts, pounding out a fierce beat of a headache. She can feel the dried blood on her temple, streaming down the side of her head. Her hands are tied in front of her. Tight, but not too tight.
She uses the walk to clock her surroundings. It’s too dark to see much, but she can hear birds in their roosts. The howl of freight trains in the distance. Water, far off, somewhere. The outlines of tall trees reaching the sky. Forest?
Sal stumbles as her world tilts and blurs, but there’s only a grunt and she’s marched forward.
She dares a glance at the guy who had busted the glass on the car window. He’s short, stocky, with a mean expression, greasy shoulder-length hair and a goatee.
It’s Molly Banks’s husband. She knows it without a doubt. He’s brought her here to make her talk. To find Molly. To kill her? She closes her eyes at the thought. Nausea churns her gut, but she forces herself to stay strong. Stay alert.
Vibration after vibration comes from her back pocket. She coughs to cover the sound. Luke. She knows it’s him. God, what this will do to him. He’ll be so worried. But, hope surges in her, he’ll know. He’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll come for her.
The man shoves her through a heavy wooden door. Immediately, they’re in the kitchen. Two toppled chairs, dishes stacked in the sink, beer cans on the counter. She shivers. It reminds her of the house she shared with Roy. Small, claustrophobic, creepy. Blue curtains hang on the window. Pictures on the fridge. Fluorescent lighting. Creaky floorboards. It’s a home. Most likely Molly’s and her husband’s.
She concentrates hard, getting it all down in her memory so she can put this fucker in a jail cell.
Her attention’s jerked back to the present, when she’s shoved into a kitchen chair. “Sit,” the man commands, thrusting a gun in her face. “Stay.”
“Chris? It’s Chris, right?” Sal says, searching her memory. In the light of the kitchen, Sal notes he’s wearing a crisp white polo tucked into khaki Carhartts. The gun’s shoved in his waistband.
He slicks black hair behind his ears. “Yeah.”
“Why am I here?” It’s a feat of strength to keep calm, keep cool. But she forces herself to. Be polite. Play dumb. Just long enough to get out of here alive.
“You know why you’re here.” He shifts his weight. “You made my wife leave. You made Molly leave me.”
Sal tilts her head. Turns on some of the training she learned. Active listening. Summon empathy. Even though she aches to hit him. To swing her fist like she did at Roy in their final confrontation. She knows it’s best to play small now, so she can play smart later. “You sound pretty hurt about that.”
“Sure, I’m fucking hurt!” Chris’s nostrils flare. His eyes swivel to a dark corner in the kitchen, where, Sal’s stunned to see, crouches a midsized scruffy terrier dog. “All I got now is this damn mutt.”
With an almost comical pirouette, Chris spins around and kicks at the dog. Sal winces at the pained yelp that comes from the animal, digging her nails in her palms to keep her anger at bay. The dog skitters across the floor, baring its teeth in a growl, its long nails clacking as it disappears into another room.
“Stupid dog,” Chris mutters, his focus drifting back to Sal, his face smoothing out into a mask. Contrite. Calm. He opens his hands. “Let’s start over. I just want to make sure Molly’s okay. Please. All I care about is my wife.” From his back pocket he pulls out his cell phone, an ancient flip phone, and shows it to Sal. “This is all I got left of her. My only way to reach her.”
Control her, Sal thinks.
But she keeps quiet. A strange kind of anger welling in her. She knows men like this. Knows what they’ll do. Lie. Gaslight. Act like they care right before they treat you like a dog. Well, she’s not a dog. Not anymore.
Sal’s eyes land on the back door. An exit. Locked.
Chris holds his waistband and tries for a smile. “It’s super simple. Tell me where she is and I’ll let you go.”
Sal’s stomach clenches. It’d be so easy to tell him where Molly is, but she can’t. A year ago, she was Molly. And ever since then, she made herself a promise to keep that strength she found. To live a life that was true and honest. She’ll never go back there. Never make another woman experience what she did. If Chris gets Molly back, he’d kill her. Sal knows it. She couldn’t live with herself if that happened.
“I don’t know,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t know where she is.”
“Liar!” he yells into her face. “You fucking bitch. You know. I know you helped her. She told me all about you. The nice nurse from the hospital. So fucking helpful.”
“Paramedic, asshole,” Sal shoots back, unable to help herself.
It’s a mistake.
Sal sees the fury on his face and her eyes go wide. He’s wheeled back, his fist ready to strike, to hit, to hammer everywhere, her stomach included. Sal hunches over, her bound hands flying to her stomach.
