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My feet hit the ground first, and the wind is knocked from my lungs, forcing a loud, painful cough. I roll forward onto my knees, then my shoulders. It’s a full somersault like I haven’t done since I was a kid, and muscles I’d forgotten about ache in an instant.
But I’m alive. Nothing is broken as far as I can tell.
I push up to my feet, and a pain twinges in my right ankle.
At the sound of his footsteps, I know there’s no time to waste or worry about what might or might not be hurt. If I want to stay alive, I have to keep moving. I take off, thankful for the boots I had the foresight to steal as I jog across the gravel at full speed.
My lungs and legs ache, the wounds in my calf and stomach burning like a stitch in my side, begging me to stop, but I can’t. If I stop moving, I die. If I slow down even a little, I die.
I push forward, tears pricking my eyes, and just as I hear the front door’s alarm—re-re-re-re-re—he shouts, “Mari! There’s nowhere to run!”
I reach the field, my whole body collapsing into the tall grass. I check over my shoulder through the weeds to see him looking in the opposite direction, one hand over his brows to shield his eyes from the sun.
With a smile, I let out a silent sigh.
I made it. I did it.
I don’t know what will come next. I don’t know where I’ll go or how I’ll make it home. I’m not worried about snakes or any other kind of animal that might be lurking in this tall grass.
I’m just happy. Just free.
I can only focus on my breathing.
Only focus on staying alive.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Once I’ve caught my breath and my adrenaline has begun to come down, I sit up and check my wounds. My stomach is bleeding again, although not enough that it causes me much worry. My calf is mostly healed at this point, so it’s okay, too. There are no other scrapes or bruises I can see, so other than being petrified, I’m doing fine.
All in all, it could be so much worse.
I push myself up to a crouching position and survey the land around me. In the distance, I can see the top half of an old barn above the tall grass of the field.
Chris headed in the opposite direction when he ran past me minutes ago, racing to follow the long driveway. If I can make it to the barn, it might be a good place to hide out with a decent vantage point while I wait until it gets dark. Then I’ll be able to make my way up the road in hopes of flagging someone down on the highway. Hopefully someone less deranged than my current captor.
Deciding that’s my best course of action, I push up to my feet. The ornamental grass goes about a foot above my head when I’m standing, but still, I keep bent over, taking advantage of the extra coverage.
I move through the grass slowly, trying to keep my path and movement inconspicuous in case I miss his return. It’s easier said than done. The sun beats down on my body, moisture clinging to every inch of my skin from the high humidity. I wipe sweat from underneath my nose, breathing downward through tightened lips to dry my chin. I can already sense that I’m getting sunburned just from being out here this long.
The food I’ve eaten lately is a shock to my system—lots of processed meals I ate in my twenties but can no longer get away with. Despite losing weight during my time held prisoner, I feel bogged down. Tired. Like I weigh much, much more. I don’t remember the last time I ate such little fresh food. Even with the veggies he’s brought me, it’s not enough to keep me feeling my best. Not that I’m the best person to discuss nutrition, by any means. I prefer potatoes to salads, and wine is my most consumed fruit, but I try. As much as everyone else does. Still, now as I try to move, I have to wonder if there’s a reason he’s fed me this way.
To keep me weak.
Then again, that could just be the alcohol withdrawal. Even with the two small glasses of wine Chris has delivered to me daily, I desperately want to drink at every moment, even when I have to think about surviving instead. Out here, back in the real world, the cravings are at an all-time high. How sick is that? I’m running for my life and still thinking about when I’ll get my next glass of wine.
Now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I only had two glasses of anything in a day. Usually, I have two glasses before noon.
Maybe I’m getting better somehow. Maybe this actually is helping me in some strange, sick way. Like a forced, psychotic rehab.
That thought makes me move faster. It makes me more determined than ever to keep moving. To prove to myself I can do it. Even when my lungs burn and my stomach aches and my feet sweat… Even when I know I’m going to pass out if I don’t stop… Even when my throat feels so thick with cotton I can’t swallow… I refuse to stop. I slow down and catch my breath, but I never stop.
When I’m close enough to the barn to see most of it, the engine of his car revs behind me. He’s made it back from the driveway empty-handed. I turn around, watching him closely from my hiding spot.
The green car peels out of the parking spot, and next thing I know, he barrels into the field. The car knocks down the tall grass, clearing a path for him as he pushes through.
No.
My heart stops. I turn back to face forward, racing for the barn at full speed. Glancing behind me, it’s clear he hasn’t seen me. He’s just trying to weed me out.
