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“Stop being paranoid. I’m fine. I’ve just been busy.”
I step onto the landing. Directly to my right is a small galley kitchen. Their voices are coming from somewhere farther into the house. In front of me, just a few feet from the staircase, is a door. Sunlight streams in from outside through a window over the sink, and I’m so close to freedom that I can practically taste it. Fresh air and sunny skies dance on my tongue as I place a hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath.
“Why didn’t you answer when I called, then? You were supposed to meet me at Brown Dog.”
“I told you, I’ve been busy. And under the weather. Anyway, I don’t have time to—”
I twist the doorknob, and the door pulls open with a sharpclick.The gust of air that hits me is so clean it makes my eyes water. Wherever their voices are coming from, they’ve stopped.
I reach for the storm door and push the handle, but it doesn’t budge.
No.
No.
No.
Everything that happens next is a blur. I search for the lock keeping this door in place, pushing the lever over and over again as it remains unmoved. In the distance, there is a sudden, loud blaring sound.
Re-re-re-re-re-re!
It drowns out whatever’s being said. A door shuts, and the sound stops.
Then footsteps.
He’s coming.
Someone’s coming.
I finally locate the lock, hidden on the underside of the handle, a tiny button tucked away from sight, and press it. The door unlatches, and I push, but then, before I can take a single step, I’m pulled backward by my hair.
I scream, hoping someone will hear me. The woman, wherever she is. A neighbor. Anyone. He slams the door shut, keeping a tight grip on my hair. With a single shove, he could send me tumbling down the narrow staircase to my death.
Instead, he leads me down the stairs like a dog. I wish I was braver, stronger. I wish I was anything like the women I write about. Anna St. James would’ve torn her hair from her scalp to get away from him. Jolene Clark would’ve found a way to shove him down the stairs herself. As for me, I walk as he leads me right back to the room, keeping myself on my tiptoes to prevent as much of the searing pain in my scalp as possible. He shoves me inside the room, and I fall to the floor. He stares at me, his chest puffing with heavy breaths, bottom teeth in full view. He’s like a bulldog ready for battle.
“Where am I?” I demand, now that I can focus on something besides the pain.
“Home,” he says firmly. “You’re home.”
“This isn’t the place where I met you.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Whose house was that?”
He squats down so he’s level with me, and I scoot away until my back hits the nightstand.
“Whose house did I go to?” I ask again. “Was it really Owen Doyle’s?”
“Doesn’t matter who it belonged to. What matters is that you’re never going back.” His eyes darken. “You’re never leaving this room. Do you hear me? If you ever try that again…”
“You’ll what?”
“I won’t go so easy on you next time, Mari. Don’t play games with me. Don’t test me.” He glances at the bandaged wound on my leg, which in the struggle has apparently been torn open. Blood seeps through the gauze, painting it brilliant shades of crimson.
He doesn’t have to say anything else. We both know he’s won, and I’ve lost.
With that, he stands and leaves the room.
