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I know we’re in McAllen, Texas, or somewhere very close because it’s the town focused on most when we watch the news. According to them, it’s a town not far from the Mexico border and full of dangerous people, abductions, and murder. I think he watches it as a way to control me and keep me here. It’s his way of saying it’s safer here, no matter what happens, than it would be for me out there.
He told me I’m making a choice staying here, but can it really be considered a choice when I’m forced to choose between him and the unknown?
I rush back to the couch when I hear the garage door open. He never steps outside of it until the door closes fully, so I know I won’t ever be caught rummaging through his things, not that there’s much around to give me any clue who the man really is. I have no idea of his likes or dislikes. I’ve discovered he’s just as quick to pick a cooking show over an action movie, just like he’ll pick a thriller over a comedy, only to be the exact opposite the next day. I can’t get a proper read on the man, and I don’t know if it’s because he honestly has such eclectic tastes or if he’s purposely trying to keep me guessing.
I watch as he enters in through the door in the kitchen, another bag of fast food in his hand. I haven’t once complained about the food he’s provided because he could just as easily not bring me anything. I imagine his goodwill can only last so long. There’s a part of me I thought he was desperate to have, but his lack of interest the last two days has me second-guessing even that.
I can’t let go of the idea that this is some long con for him, that he’s purposely trying to gain my trust just so it hurts more when he betrays it, but he doesn’t seem like Alessio at all.
He pulls some sort of sandwich from the bag before walking out the backdoor.
He doesn’t offer me what’s left in the bag, but I don’t hesitate to walk forward and look inside. I don’t know if he forgot or didn’t get the honey mustard on purpose. It feels like a form of manipulation as I pull the remaining food from the bag.
He doesn’t come back into the house. Instead, he opts to sit on the single rocking chair on the back porch. It’s his way of avoiding me because he knows I wouldn’t step foot out there. The neighbor’s house is so close I feel like I can touch it from one of the bedroom windows. The fence is a rusty chain-link, offering no privacy. I can’t let anyone know that I’m here, and he knows it.
I eat, waiting for him to come back inside, wondering what I’ll say to him when he does. It shouldn’t hurt my feelings, his insistence to be alone, but for some reason it does.
I flip through the channels on the television, wondering what he would pick if he were sitting beside me, and jolt at a noise from the street. I’m on edge, once again eyeing the door the same way I do when I consider trying to sleep out here rather than naked and vulnerable beside him. That fear always has me crawling into the bed.
I pause on a show about something the host of the documentary calls capture-bonding, an alternative name for Stockholm’s syndrome. They mention a lot of things, but I don’t feel like it’s describing me.
I don’t care for Hollis. I see him as the lesser of two very evil choices, and I know that opinion may change whenever he decides he’s had enough of resisting what he really wants from me.
I don’t dislike people who may be looking for me because those who are only want to hurt me worse.
The only thing that strikes a chord is that we may have the same desires. We both want the Severino family destroyed. The problem with that is I know it can never happen to such a powerful organization, and Hollis is delusional, thinking he’s going to be the one to cut them off at the knees.
He doesn’t come back inside for hours. I can see the top of the rocking chair moving back and forth, back and forth, for a long time. The sun sets, and yet he still remains back there.
I think when he reenters the house, things are going to change, but even two days later, he’s still ignoring my existence. I hate the man for it, wondering if his threats and the fear he instills isn’t better than being looked through as if I don’t exist.
Chapter 23
Hollis
I’m twitchy.
It’s nothing new. I hate being around people. I normally avoid it at any cost, but the drive-thru line was backed out to the street. I was mistaken, thinking that coming inside would be faster. I placed my order ten minutes ago, and yet I’m still standing off to the side, right alongside five others waiting for food.
