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I tried to wiggle away, but Knight’s hands clasped against my lower back. “It sounds like you’ve thought a lot about my security.”
“Only because I want to keep you safe. You can’t rely on him for that forever.”
“Can we talk about something else? Anything else?” I asked. Everything between us was shifting. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the idea that Knight would think I was anything but fiercely independent and strong. It was hard to be this vulnerable with him.
“Do you want to tell me how you got out of the basement?” he prodded. I immediately moaned. He tipped my chin upward. “I need to know what happened.”
“And then you’ll let it go?” I made him promise.
He nodded. “And then I’ll let it go.”
“Fine. But I need a refill first.” Knight finally broke his hold on me. I took a full inhale of air now that my lungs had a way to expand and waited for him to top off the glass. He sat next to me on the edge of the bed.
He needed the full story to understand who I was now.
Four Years Ago
My neck hurt. I rubbed the pinched nerve behind my ear. The searing pain traveled past my shoulder to a point in my elbow. I winced and rose from the couch. I’d spent five nights on that thing, and it wasn’t getting any easier. Each day I woke up in more pain than the day before. My body didn’t want to acclimate to this room—it rejected it at every turn. There was no comfort. No sense of shelter. It was my prison. A bleak musty coffin.
I shuffled to the sink and turned on the hot water to splash my face. I waited for the door to open. It had been over a day since I had been given a new set of clothes. I brushed my teeth next.
Sometimes when my eyes opened, I wondered if it was 7 am or 2 pm. I still hadn’t figured out a way to measure time. I only counted it by the meals that were delivered and what types of foods were on the trays. I knew those might be in reverse order just to mess with my head. I couldn’t count on my kidnappers to dole out helpful clues. I couldn’t trust anything in my surroundings.
I started to doubt myself. I retraced the days leading up to my abduction.
I questioned if the memories were real. Was anything I remembered accurate? Was it a migraine that knocked me out, or did someone cause the migraine? What order do it all take place? Did my father know I was gone? He was too incapacitated to know who was near him. His days were as blended together as mine were. Had anyone else from the house noticed?
I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs toward the ceiling. It was usually followed by a quick stomp to shut me up. This time the scream was uninterrupted. I snapped my lips together and stared at the ceiling. Nothing. Not even a shuffle of feet.
I screamed again. I beat on the door and pressed my ear against the metal. It was silent on the other side. Was I alone?
My pulse began to race. Had I been abandoned down here? Left to die? My palms prickled. They were quickly coated in sweat. It hadn’t been this quiet since I’d been here. I’d spent hours trying to count how many men were upstairs. I’d try to match footsteps by the heaviness or the length of their gait. It mostly became a way to pass the time, an illusion I created that I’d be able to solve the mystery.
Without the stomping of boots and shoes, I felt more uneasy. As if it was foreboding instead of promising.
I washed my hands again and patted a towel on my face. My ears perked. Was that a set of footsteps? But they were slow. So deliberate. Nothing like what I usually heard. The cadence across the floor wasn’t messy and sloppy.
I didn’t know why but I backed away from the sink and the door. Everything that happened after that was reactionary. I dragged the couch from the wall and crouched behind it. The concrete wall was rough against my cheek. I huddled in the musty sliver of space I created. I had to cover my mouth with my hands when I heard two gunshots. It was hard to contain the scream that was pulled from my throat. The lock on the door had been destroyed just before a heavy boot kicked the door open.
I’d never been terrified before. There were times in my life when my father scared me. Threatened me. Wielded his power as a weapon to control me with fear. But terror? I’d never come close to the way my body was immobilized with paralysis. I forgot to breathe. Somewhere in the fog of fear I heard my name.
“Kennedy? Kennedy!” Kimble shouted.
“Kimble?” I croaked out.
The couch slid away from my body and he stood in front of me, gun drawn, pointed toward the ceiling.
The expression on his face told me how horrible I must have looked to him. He lifted me to my feet with one arm.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. I was trying to process that he was here. He spun toward the door, shielding me behind his back.
“That’s good. That’s good news. Let’s go. You can walk okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered. It was the first time my bodyguard actually touched me. He squeezed my hand and led me through the door. I stared at it in amazement, afraid that once I crossed the threshold, I’d learn some horrible lesson. I’d be electrocuted or kicked backward as the door slammed shut, leaving me on one side and Kimble on the other. He had to tug me to the steps.
“It’s okay,” he assured me. “The house is cleared out. I can carry you.”
