by Pam Godwin
Except I gave her my number with the unspoken offer to help. God, that was over two years ago. What if he’s been hurting her or holding her against her will all this time?
I hit the gas and drive through the night. Eyes gritty and head heavy, I arrive on his rural road after three in the morning.
He lives on a small plot of land, surrounded by fields and woods. No neighbors. Nowhere to hide my car.
I park on the shoulder about a quarter of a mile from the house. Setting my phone on vibrate, I slip it and the knife into my pocket. Then I walk the rest of the way.
The June heat has cooled off beneath the shade of nightfall, leaving a sticky, mosquito-loving mugginess. I swat at the bloodsuckers on my arms and quiet my footfalls on the poorly paved road.
At the gravel driveway, I remain hidden in the shadows of overgrown shrubs. Darkness envelopes his house. Outside, inside, nothing stirs.
Raina told me not to come, so I don’t plan on rolling right up to the front door. Yet.
I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a call and linger for another ten minutes, certain they’re asleep. There’s nothing I can do tonight.
Exhaustion pulls on my eyelids as I make the trek back to the car. The motel in town appeared vacant when I passed through earlier. I’ll stay there tonight so that when she calls, I’ll be close.
Twenty minutes later, I pay the clerk, shuffle into a musty room, and fall into an uneasy sleep.
Early the next morning, I wake on a lumpy bed and immediately check my phone. No missed calls.
The knot in my stomach tightens. Something’s wrong.
How long should I wait? What if she never contacts me?
I call in sick to the diner, shower, and grab breakfast from the bakery next door. Then I return to the room and pace.
I need Jarret. If I asked him for help, he would come. He’s only two hours away. But what if he rejects my call? What if a woman answers his phone?
My chest clenches. I can’t deal with that right now. Besides, the last words I hurled at him were along the lines of let me work through my own problems.
Another hour of pacing and waiting works me into a frazzled panic. It’s almost noon before I decide on a plan. Or the beginnings of one. It’s enough to spur me into the car, armed with questions for John Holsten.
I park in his driveway, shaking and sweating. I chewed the shit out of my cheek on the way here, leaving a shredded gouge against my tongue. I can’t do this.
Yes, I can. It’s not like he’s going to kill me.
Would he?
With the knife and phone in my pocket, I head to the door and knock.
Footsteps approach from within, seizing my lungs. The door opens, and John Holsten stands on the threshold, wearing an oily smirk.
An undershirt hangs untucked from black trousers. His black and silver hair greases around his ears, long overdue for a trim. He’s also in desperate need of a shave. And a shower.
“Maybe Quinn.” His brown eyes sweep over me and pause on the boots. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Still looking for your husband?”
“Not exactly.”
He gives my boots another narrowed glance. “My boy had a pair of those. Looked just like ‘em.”
“Jarret gave them to me.” My toes flex against the soles. “May I come in?”
“Please.” He steps aside, his gaze crawling over my skin as I slide by him. “Something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” I quickly inspect the sitting room filled with heavy wooden furniture.
Nothing seems out of place. The kitchen sits in the back. Empty. The doorway beside it leads to a small bathroom. The hallway to the left gives way to two more doors. One opens to a bedroom. The other is closed.
“Where’s Raina today?” I lower onto the armchair with a direct view of that closed door.
“She’s not feeling well. Too much whiskey last night, I’m afraid.” He winks and pours himself a glass of the stuff from the liquor cabinet in the sitting room.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dread builds in my throat. “I hope she feels better.”
“So you found Rogan Cassidy?” He sits in the chair across from me, heaving his round gut over his belt.
I assume he knows Rogan’s dead, but I won’t admit to anything that incriminates Jarret and Jake. “Yes, but he’s not speaking to me.”
He chuckles. “I s’pose he’s not.”
“I thought you could help me fill in some gaps.”
He lifts the tumbler to his lips, studying me over the rim. “Ask your questions.”
I start with the easy ones. How long did he know Rogan? When did they meet? How often did they talk? I know the answers, but I’m here to keep him talking with the hope that Raina will emerge from that room.
I speak loud enough for her to hear my voice. If she opens the door, she’ll see me.
After ten minutes of stalling, there hasn’t been a peep from the hallway, and I’ve run out of easy questions.
“Did Rogan…?” I pull in a deep breath and release it. “Did he deliberately steal from me with no intention of returning?”
John leans back in the chair and balances the whiskey glass on his knee. “He took you to the cleaners, sugar. You were one of many. Just another con in a long list of cons.”
“What?” My voice strangles as ice prickles my cheeks.
“He married you for your inheritance. Same with the others before you.” He cocks his head. “You didn’t know he was married six times?”
“No.” My fingers bite into the armrests, and my stomach sours with disgust.
“The man was a con-artist. Mighty good at it, too. Till he got greedy. My boys would’ve never given up that land. Too much attachment to it.”
The room wobbles around me, distorting his voice.
I was just the target of a con. All that guilt and self-loathing over a man who didn’t love me was a joke. I really am naive.
“How are my boys?” His eyes drop to my boots again.
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“I worked on the ranch for a while. They didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust them. It was a waste of time.”
It was the best time of my life. When I’m finished here, I’m going to call Conor and beg for an update on their lives.
“I miss it.” He kicks out a boot, sprawling in the chair. “Nothing beats herding cattle on a hot day like this.”
As he drones on about his life on the ranch, I steal peeks at the door down the hall. Is she actually in the room? Is she hurt? I need to see her.
My plan got me into the house. Whatever comes after is on a wing and a prayer.
“May I use your bathroom?” I need time to think, without his wandering eyes and nonstop jabber.
“Behind you.” He gestures at the door.
“Thank you.” I shut myself inside the small room and pinch the bridge of my nose.
I need an excuse to go into that bedroom, but I don’t have one. I could demand to see her. My threats worked on him before, and I have enough evidence against him to make him sweat.
Problem is I would never follow through. If I reported John Holsten to the authorities, he would take Jarret and Jake down with him.
I have nothing.
Flushing the toilet, I step out and into an empty room. A shadow passes across the window, and I spot John outside. Standing on the porch, he holds a phone to his ear, head down and back to me.
I lurch into motion.
Shutting the bathroom door, I slip into the hall. If he glances inside, he’ll think I’m still on the toilet.
Adrenaline spikes my veins at a full pelt as I sprint toward the closed-off bedroom. I grip the handle, push, and it doesn’t give.
What the—?
There! On the top edge of the door, a barrel bolt holds it in place. I slide it open and shove, stumbling in and…
“Oh my God.” The sharp scent of blood hits my nose, and I gag.
Steel shackles encircle her wrists, connected to chains that fasten to the wall. Her face is unrecognizable, swollen and lacerated, black and blue, and caked in dried gore.
Full-body tremors hold me frozen as I glance at the empty hall. The moment he ends his phone call, he’ll be inside the house, waiting for me to emerge from the bathroom.
If he knows I found Raina, he’ll kill me. After seeing the damage he’s done to her, I have no doubt. I need to be quick.
My stomach solidifies into a block of ice as I run toward her and drop to my knees.
Padlocks secure the shackles, the chains unyielding when I yank on them.
“Raina?” I shake her bruised shoulder, rousing a moan from her throat. “Where’s the key?”
She blinks up at me with one good eye, the other sealed shut.
“The key.” I grip the cuffs on her wrists, my pulse careening into dizzying levels. “Where?”
“Kitchen.” Her tongue darts out, wetting busted lips. “Hook.”
“Hook where?” I strain my hearing, listening for the creak of the front door.
If he comes in, I need an exit plan.
The window.
I hurry toward it and sweep aside the blanket. No bars. It faces the woods out back and a shed that sits at the tree line.
Two window locks give way after a little force, but it doesn’t open. I put all my strength into it, grunting and losing precious seconds.
“Painted shut,” she whispers from the floor.
“Can you walk?” I remove the blade from my pocket and cut around the seams.
“Don’t know.”
The window lifts, and the bottled breath in my chest bursts free.
“The hook?” I close the window, leave it unlocked, and run to the door.
“Wall. Next to fridge.”
“Try to stand. I’ll be back.”
“No cops.” Her hoarse plea follows me out the door.
I close it behind me, return the lock, and listen.
His voice muffles through the thin walls, indiscernible but definitely outside. I take off toward the kitchen, locate the hook, the key. Oh, thank fuck.
As I come around the corner of the sitting room, he stands outside the window and lowers the phone from his ear.
I have two seconds before he turns around, and I use those to swing open the bathroom door and position my body to appear as if I’m just coming out.
He meets my gaze through the glass, and I hold my breath. After a suffocating moment of eye contact, he turns toward the front door.
I exhale loudly, wheezing, trembling, and burning up with chills. The key goes in my pocket. A soft smile settles onto my face, and I calmly lower onto the armchair.
If I bolt, it’ll make him suspicious. So I prepare myself for a horrifying chitchat with a monster while pretending a woman isn’t broken and chained in a room down the hall.
“Sorry about that.” He steps inside and closes the door. “Had a little emergency recently. Couldn’t ignore that call.”
“Everything okay?”
“Much better.” He scrutinizes me for the span of a hundred thundering heartbeats. Then a grin curls his lips. “Now where were we?”
“The stallion you tried to break…”
“Ah, yes. That there was some fine breeding.”
He returns to his chair and proceeds to tell me all about his horses, John Deere tractors, and the winter that wouldn’t quit.
My mind flails through the agonizing discussion, tormenting me with scenarios that end with me shackled in that blood-stained room beside Raina. I need to get out of here. Every second I delay is a second he could look into my eyes and register my fear.
I wait for a pause in his storytelling, and when it finally comes, I leap on it.
“I should get going.” I reach for my keys. “I have a long drive back.”
“Where to?”
“I’d rather not say.” I stand and offer my hand. “Thank you for answering my questions.”
“It’s been a pleasure.” He grips my fingers, and his thumb slides over my wrist, spreading a revolted shudder through my body.
He walks me out and stands on the porch as I move in a petrified fog to the car. He continues to watch me as I pull out of the driveway.
I turn in the direction I came, and the moment he’s out of view, I lose it.
My lungs burst, shoving air past my parched throat. My hands shake violently against the steering wheel, and tears pour from my eyes.
I’m terrified to go back, but I have no choice. He’ll notice that key missing, and when he does, Raina’s chance for survival disintegrates.
Pulling off onto a dirt path nestled in trees, I park the car out of view of the road. Then I type a message to Jarret. I outline the situation and provide the address of his dad’s house.
But I don’t send the text. It’s my emergency plan.
My parking spot is a five-minute hike from the house, through a field. I hope to hell Raina can make that trek. She’s around my weight, and I won’t be able to carry her.
From my overnight bag, I remove a casual sundress. I don’t have extra shoes, but at least she’ll have something to wear.
The walk back is a harrowing test of bravery. I’m not a courageous person, but I am stubborn. That stubbornness keeps me moving. The phone in my pocket gives me strength.
If something happens, I’ll press send on that message, and Jarret will come.
When I reach the house, I approach from the back, keeping to the trees. My heart pounds so viciously I feel like my ribs are breaking.
I sprint toward the room where she’s held and arrive at the window. It groans with the hoist of my hands, and I freeze. Every organ in my body turns to stone, waiting for a blade or bullet to run through me.
Nothing happens.
I poke my head under the glass pane and find Raina swaying on her feet in the middle of the room, the chains stretched as far as they can go.
She holds out her hands, rattling the metal links. I toss the key, and she catches it.
Lowering to the floor, she works the locks. It takes forever. Minutes. Hours. The space between my shoulders contracts and itches, and saliva thickens into a dry paste in my mouth.
Hurry. Faster. Come on.
I should climb in and help her, but that’s where my bravery ends. I entered the house of horrors once. I won’t do it again.
Finally, she rises, arms free, and focuses her good eye on me.
I stretch an arm through the window, while keeping my attention on the open space behind me.
She staggers toward me and falls against the sill. We go slow and quiet. She climbs. I pull. Her body is so damaged and malnourished her bruises have bruises, her bones press beneath her skin, and some of the lacerations rip open as she falls through the window with a silent cry.
I release a held breath and loop her arm over my shoulders. “Now we run.”
The forty-foot dash to the tree line is the part I dread most. Can she run? Will he see us? Will bullets plow down our heart-pounding escape?
My blood catches fire, my limbs functioning on their own. I’m disconnected from everything but the ever-present drum of my pulse.
Her feet move in pace with mine, her naked body eking out the last of its strength. When we make it to the cover of foliage and thistles, she tries to collapse.
I hold her up and wrangle the dress over her head. “This isn’t over until we reach the car. Five minutes. You can do this.”
“Yeah.” She grimaces as she works the dress over the gouges and cuts on her torso and hips. “Ready.”
By the time we reach the car, I’m dragging her. My muscles burn. Hot flashes blot my vision, and my jaw aches from clenching.
>
As I fold her abused body into the backseat, she mumbles, “No cops.”
A frightening thought runs through me. “Does he know where I live?”
“No.” She releases a pained groan and passes out.
I grip the roof of the car to prevent myself from following her under. Hours of extreme stress has taken its toll. But I won’t be able to relax until we’re in my apartment.
My legs protest the walk to the driver’s seat. My back aches as I lower behind the steering wheel.
I have a three-hour drive left. Three hours to figure out what to do with Raina Benally.
Three hours to decide if I should call Jarret.
Raina sleeps the entire duration of the drive. With a vise around my chest, I maintain the speed limit and watch the rearview mirror for signs of John Holsten.
It’s a mentally agonizing, physically exhausting race to my apartment. Even harder is walking her up three flights of stairs without suspicious glances from my neighbors.
My Stetson and sunglasses hide her face, but her pain is palpable, shaking her tiny frame with every step.
Inside, I bathe her, feed her broth, treat her wounds, and tuck her into bed, during which I press her for answers. How long has he been hurting her? Why can’t I call the cops or take her to a hospital? What is she not telling me?
She refuses to talk. It could be the pain, a mental breakdown, or something else, but she hasn’t spoken since we left John’s house.
I let her sleep and shuffle to the window. A storm just blew in, and I’m drawn by the rain pelting against the glass.
The clap of thunder electrifies my skin and fills me with a nostalgia that hugs my soul. The electric flickering of lightning illuminates my mind with images and sensations of a wild night with a perfect man. White bolts streak toward the earth, stirring treacherous longings for the one I let go.
I’ve starved myself for so long I don’t know how to escape the cage I trapped myself in. I live in the confines of my own destruction, running a self-torturing marathon on bloody knees. But lightning storms release me from that hell, if only for a little while.
I feel him in the charged air, see his eyes burning in the violent limbs of light, and hear his roar in the rumble of thunder. Storms connect me to him, but whenever they pass, I go cold inside, my soul incomplete, my feelings numb.
