by S. R. Grey
Medical reports—bruises, burn marks, ligature marks on her neck, and evidence of repeated sexual assault.
God, I’m disgusted. My stomach is churning. Feeling more and more ill, I move through the pages so quickly they become a blur of images and words.
Just as well. I can’t read the more explicit passages. That shit is way too disturbing. When I come across the autopsy photos—images of Annemarie’s battered, broken body—I can’t take it any longer. I stuff the papers back into the file and jam the entire folder deep into the bag.
I’m about to be sick, for real. I make it to the en suite bathroom just in time. As the contents of my stomach empty into the commode, I think of how close Haven came to sharing the same fate as Annemarie. But the creepiest part is that the more I think on it, the more I realize how much the two girls look alike. Maybe there’s a certain in-demand look for the girls this insidious organization goes after. Maybe young, beautiful girls with dark hair and light eyes are a hot commodity.
I throw up again, and when there is nothing left in my stomach, I make a vow to ignore any more stumbled-upon files.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
That evening Haven and I are upstairs in her bedroom talking. I don’t mention the file I found. I prefer to forget what I saw, as well as the things I read. Besides, Haven is happy today. She’s talking about acting. And, frankly, I’m thrilled she still has the desire to pursue her dream, despite everything that’s happened to her.
“If I do decide to return to Oakwood,” she says out of the blue, “I plan to avoid Professor Walsh.”
“Oh, him…” I roll my eyes. “Yes, please do.”
I’m worried Haven might still like the jackass professor, until she says, “Hey, I’m done with him, Essa. No joke.”
“Please, Haven,” I say in a pleading tone. “Promise me you are.”
“I promise,” she assures me, and then she quietly adds, “I’m into someone else now, anyway.”
I raise a brow. “Rick?”
Smiling surreptitiously, she says, “What do you think?”
“Ooh,” I squeal, “I knew it.” And then I add, “I’m happy for you, Hav.”
Just then, coincidentally, Rick hollers up the stairs. He says he wants us to meet him in the den as soon as possible. He’s been in and out a lot today, doing Lord knows what. The one time I did run into him, shortly before dinner—which he skipped—he appeared to be greatly concerned about something.
Crap, I hope he didn’t figure out that I stumbled upon the Quinton Barnes file. That’s my concern as Haven and I leave her room and start down the stairs.
“If he hadn’t skipped dinner,” Haven snips on our way, “he could have told us then whatever it is that’s so urgent now.”
I glance over at her. She may be crushing on Rick, yes, but she is royally ticked that he missed the dinner she made earlier.
“I wonder what he wants to talk about,” I muse.
She shrugs. “I have no idea.”
When we reach the den, the door is closed. I raise my hand to knock, but Haven pushes the door open and walks right in. “Guess we’re about to find out,” she tosses flippantly over her shoulder.
Damn, she’s really pissed at him. I can’t help but smile. I’m glad to see she’s showing some fire.
My smile quickly fades, though, when Rick peers up from where he’s pecking away at a keyboard behind the desk. He appears to be far from amused at our barging in. “Girls,” he says in greeting, nodding his head once.
“Rick,” Haven replies curtly.
He ignores Haven’s attitude and gestures to two chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat,” he says.
“What’s going on?” Haven asks as she’s sitting down. Her flippant attitude suddenly turns to concern when she sees Rick’s grim expression.
As I sit down in the chair next to her, I add worriedly, “Is everything all right?”
Rick sighs and says, “Maybe.”
“Wait”—my heart races—“Farren is okay, right?”
Haven pales but remains silent. I don’t think she can even fathom a world without her brother.
But, thankfully, Rick assures us, “Yes, ladies, Farren is fine.”
Haven and I breathe out simultaneous sighs of relief. When we glance at each other, our expressions say, “Thank God.”
“Actually,” Rick continues, “Farren is not only fine. He’s on his way back to the safe house.”
“Did he, uh…” I stammer, not quite knowing how to phrase the question on my mind. “Is Eric, um…?”
Rick raises an eyebrow. “Dead, Essa?”
I nod, and he replies, “No, Farren was unable to locate him. And there’s no more time to search. Farren needs to return to the safe house as soon as possible.”
Haven chimes in. “Why? What’s going on?”
I see the panic in her face. She doesn’t want to end up back in the hands of Eric or his minions. Rick, noticing her discomfort, gently says to her, “Haven, I’ll make sure you’re safe, no matter what happens, okay?”
Nodding, she whispers, “Okay. Thank you.”
She’s really come to rely on Rick, and that’s good and all. But we still don’t know what’s happening. Whatever it is, it’s something big enough to compel Farren to return without accomplishing his task of killing Eric.
Instead of giving us any answers, however, Rick rolls his chair back and slides open the top desk drawer. He takes out two .38s. Pushing one across the desk to me, he says, “Farren told me you can handle one of these. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then, take it. Keep it with you at all times.”
I tentatively pick up the gun. “Even in the house?”
“Yes,” he replies, “even in the house. Outside, as well. Keep it with you everywhere you go.”
He slides the other .38 in Haven’s direction. “I don’t know how to shoot this thing,” she says, eyeing the firearm like it’s a snake about to spring at her.
“That’s okay. I’m going to give you a quick lesson tomorrow morning,” Rick informs her.
“Where?” she asks, frowning.
He motions to a window to his left. There’s a clear view of the back of the house. “Out there,” he says.
The backyard is not unlike the area where Farren taught me to shoot—all desert for as far as the eye can see. Nothing was ever built behind the houses in this section of the subdivision.
Haven is still frowning, and Rick swiftly provides her with more details of his plan. I guess he’s hoping to give her confidence that she can do this. “I’ll set up some targets away from the house. The .38 is easy to use.” He smiles at Haven. “You’ll do fine. We’ll make it fun.”
I give Haven a reassuring glance, hoping to bolster her confidence. I remind her, “It’s not like you have to worry about accidentally shooting any neighbors. We don’t have any, since all the houses around us are vacant.”
Haven chuckles a little and says, “That’s certainly true.”
Rick nudges the gun toward her once more, and this time she takes it. Holding it gingerly, she says sadly, “Wish I would’ve had one of these the night I was abducted.”
“I think we all wish that,” Rick replies.
Amen, I think.
The next morning, Rick is setting up targets in the backyard. Not close to the house, I notice when I glance out my upstairs-bedroom window. He and Haven are several hundred yards away.
When the shooting lesson gets underway, I step into the bathroom so I can take a long shower. Afterward, I slip a navy V-neck tee over my head and then tug a pair of bright white cotton shorts up my very tan legs. I twist my hair into a bun and pin it to the top of my head. I haven’t worn my hair up in a while, but the weather warrants it today. It’s exceptionally hot. Even the air-conditioned house is not nearly as cool as usual.
A few minutes later finds me down in the kitchen. I’m throwing together a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled e
ggs. With a piece of toast hanging out of my mouth, a plate of eggs in one hand, and a juice glass in the other, I kick out a chair and plop down at the table. I eat my breakfast listening to the echo of shots being fired in the distance. All the while, my .38 rests next to my juice glass.
Rick never divulged why Farren was coming back early, and I now wonder what could be the problem. Farren seemed pretty set on finding Eric so he could make him pay for the things he did to Haven. What would pull Farren away from a job unfinished? And what kind of problem could have arisen so quickly?
Without more info I can’t come up with any answers. But by the time I’m finished eating, I’m quite distracted anyway, by, of all things, the heat. It’s stifling hot in the house. Beads of sweat are beginning to roll down my back.
“Jeez,” I mumble, “why is the air conditioning not coming on?”
The air hasn’t come on since it last cycled over an hour ago. On such a scorching-hot day, the air should be running almost continuously. Fully aware that a fuse could have blown, I get up from the table and search for a flashlight. In a drawer by the sink I locate one. It’s not in the best condition, but it will do. I head to where the fuse box is located…in the basement. Actually, I reluctantly walk in the direction of the narrow door in the corner of the kitchen.
Ugh, I hate basements.
Most homes in the Southwest don’t have basements, but since this one does, when I finally reach the door, I send up a prayer that this particular basement won’t be dark and creepy like the ones in the eastern half of the country usually are.
Unfortunately, when I swing the door open as wide as it goes, I can’t determine much on the state of affairs. “Shit,” I mumble, “it’s awfully dark down there.”
I flip the switch on the wall, but, just like in a horror movie, nothing happens.
Great.
I turn on my flashlight and aim it down the steps. The batteries are almost dead, so the anemic beam doesn’t illuminate much.
After some deep breathing to calm my frazzled nerves, I close the door and start down the stairs. With every step I take, I can’t help but recall the movie Farren and I went to see in Oklahoma City. Shuddering, I hope and pray no dark, shadowy figures grab me from under the steps like they did to the lead character.
Taking the final few steps gingerly, I breathe a sigh of relief. “You’ve made it down the stairs without incident,” I say, congratulating myself.
Turning, I direct the flashlight beam to the heart of the basement.
And when I see what—or rather, who—is in the center of the room, I gasp and reach for my gun.
But, shit, I don’t have it on me. I left it up in the kitchen on the table. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I have three options: scream, use the flashlight as a weapon, or run.
I do all three, in that order.
Unfortunately for me, my scream dies in my throat, the flashlight falls short of the man I’ve flung it at, and, when I try to run back up the stairs, I am violently grabbed.
Violently grabbed and pulled to the one person I have no doubt is here to hurt me—Eric.
I struggle. I try to scream. I scratch and bite. But nothing I do makes a bit of difference.
Eric holds me in place, hand over my mouth.
I am so screwed. But I decide I’m not going down without more fighting. Farren would expect nothing less from me. Same with Haven. Most importantly, I will never again be a helpless victim like I was freshman year at that Halloween party.
So I fight.
I bite Eric’s hand, hard, and he jerks it away from my mouth. “Little bitch,” he barks.
While he’s distracted, I wiggle and twist around, my pinned-up hair tumbling to my shoulders. Seconds later I am facing Eric. With everything I’ve got, I wind my arm back and punch him in the face.
Bad idea. Eric hits me back, three times and three times as hard. My only saving grace is that they are open-hand hits. Punches would have knocked me out. He obviously wants me conscious for whatever he has planned.
With my head ringing, and still seeing stars, I start to crumple to the cement floor. But Eric is having none of that. He yanks me back up and hisses in my ear, “I should have gotten rid of you back in Pennsylvania.”
My head lolls to the side, and I can feel there’s a nasty lump forming on my throbbing cheek. Still, I gather the strength to whisper, “Let me go, you sick fuck.”
My back is pressed to Eric’s chest. He snickers and trails his free hand down to my breasts. Through my tee and bra, he pinches one of my nipples. I wince but try to remain stoic. When he continues to squeeze and twist, however, I can’t hold back. It hurts like hell, and I cry out.
He lets go, laughing. My nipple is left sore and burning. Eric says in my ear, “I’ll let you go, little Essa Brant. But before this day is over just know I plan to break you.”
A tear runs down my cheek. I don’t want to show any weakness to this cruel man—that’s what he wants—but I can’t stop myself. “Please,” I cry. “I don’t have anything you want.”
“On the contrary, you have everything I need. You’re the perfect bait.”
Bait for what? Or rather, who? Is he here to recapture Haven? Does he know Rick is with her? Or—and I suspect this is the accurate presumption—is Eric planning on using me to hurt Farren? If so, he must know Farren is after him. Sneaky fucker, he’s doubled back. That’s why Farren is returning. Eric is the reason Rick gave me and Haven guns. Farren and Rick are onto Eric. But, still, he has somehow eluded them and arrived earlier than they anticipated.
Eric drags me to the center of the basement. Some light streams in from a single high-set window that is at ground level outside. Looking around, I see there’s not much in the basement, some wooden folding chairs stacked against a cement-block wall, a washer and dryer in a corner nook, and a water heater. Oh, and the fuse box Eric obviously tampered with to lure me down here.
“Don’t move,” Eric says.
He leaves me alone for three seconds, just long enough to grab one of the folding chairs. Not long enough for me to run.
He pushes me down on the chair and binds me with rope he has tucked under the stairs. He gags me with a piece of cloth he finds on the floor. He takes a small roll of duct tape from his pants pocket. With his teeth, he rips off a long strip and presses it to my lips.
“There,” he says, patting my sore cheek. “I think we’ve heard enough out of you for one day.”
My breaths come faster and faster. I can barely breathe. The heat, the fear, it’s all consuming. Sweat beads on my forehead, but Eric, no surprise, ignores my distress. He’s too preoccupied with pacing the cement floor, waiting. Haven and Rick are still out in the back. I hear the discharge of the guns in the distance as the shooting lesson continues.
Eric hears the noise, too. “Haven learning to shoot,” he scoffs. “That’s some funny shit.”
Okay, he knows Haven is here. I’m sure he’s aware, as well, that Rick is out there with her. I mentally kick myself again for leaving my gun up on the kitchen table. I should have never set it down, not even for a minute. Now look where I am. No weapons are visible on Eric—he has on dark pants and a thin gray pullover—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a gun hidden somewhere on his tall body.
Eric suddenly stops pacing. He grabs up another wooden folding chair, opens it, and places it in front of me. He sits down, scoots closer, and stares at me. “You don’t even know what kind of mess you’re caught up in, do you?”
I can’t answer besides a single shake of my head, so he continues. “Do you even know who Farren Shaw is? Do you know why his sister was taken?”
I shake my head again. Even if my mouth wasn’t taped, I wouldn’t tell him what I know—that Dawson thought Farren was releasing girls so they could work for him. I wouldn’t tell him about the whole phony “rogue” story. Maybe he knows, though, and that’s what he thinks he’s going to enlighten me with.
But Eric makes me think di
fferently when he says, “Do you know who Quinton Barnes really is?”
I know he’s a successful businessman who hired Farren to avenge his daughter’s death, I think as I stare Eric down.
“You have no idea,” he snarls. Leaning back, he places his ankle up on his knee and smirks. “Don’t worry. I didn’t know either. That is, I didn’t know until recently. Farren is one smart motherfucker. I’ll give him that. He played our organization from the beginning, even duped that sick scumbag Dawson.” He snickers and adds, “Rogue, my ass. It was a good story, though, a clever diversion from the truth.”
Truth? What is he talking about? Eric clearly knows Dawson. And he’s fully aware that the Farren-gone-rogue story is bogus. He has to be onto Barnes, since he mentioned his name. But something in his too-smug expression tells me there’s far more to this complicated mess than a wealthy man seeking justice for his daughter.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, maybe I could think more clearly. But as it is, I have no more theories. I am officially lost.
Suddenly, I hear voices ring out from upstairs. Rick and Haven are returning from shooting. Damn, they have no idea Eric is in the house. And I have no way to warm them.
Eric hears the activity above us, his head jerking upward.
With her voice muffled through the closed door at the top of the stairs, my captor and I listen as Haven says to Rick, “Wonder where Essa wandered off to? You don’t think Farren returned while we were out back, do you?”
“No,” Rick replies, “he’s not due back for another hour or two.”
An evil grin spreads across Eric’s face. I have to warn Haven and Rick. But when I try to yell, all that comes out of my covered mouth is a low whimper. Even though there is no way I could have been heard, Eric grabs me by the neck and squeezes so hard that he ends up pulling me partway out of the chair, despite being roped down like an animal.
“Stay the fuck quiet,” he warns. His steely eyes bore into my own tear-filled ones. I nod rapidly, and he lets go. If I wasn’t tied, I’d be doubling over from the pain. But as it is, only a muffled choking noise escapes me as I try to catch my breath through my nose.
