CHAPTER ONE
UNKNOWN
“Up and cominglifestyle content creator, Summer Stone, has officially been listed as a missing person, after family and friends say they haven’t heard from her in more than five days. Here’s Jane Waters with the latest.”
My eyes jump to the grainy view of the television above the check-out counter at the gas station. The low hum of the refrigeration system permeates my thoughts and slices my concentration, but my ears still perk at the evening news report. Tossing a bag of chips, a Reese’s, and an energy drink onto the counter, the man behind it barely gives me notice as he starts ringing up my items. My lips mash into a frown.
“That all?” he says gruffly. After a moment of prolonged silence, he glances up at me, about to mouth off when I point to the cigarette display behind him. I quit two years ago, but lately the stress of life has me being sucked back into enjoying those nasty cancer sticks.
“Mals?” he asks, and I nod, signingThank Youin the hopes he understands that no voice will answer his question. He rings up the red and white box, cheeks pinkening now that he realizes his surliness with me was misplaced.I’m nothing but an innocent low-life who can’t speak. Nothing noteworthy.I’vesaid this to myself so often lately that I’m almost starting to believe it.
He juts his thumb back to the old TV, placing my four items in a plastic bag. “Damn shame these girls put their whole lives on the internet these days. What do they expect to happen? Poor thing is probably dead or about to be.”
My heart gives a painful clench, and my jaw follows suit as I slowly drag the bag toward me across the worn, chipped counter. Society will forever place blame on the victims because it’s easier than admitting we’ve failed as a human race.
Dipping my chin to him in acknowledgment, I turn on my heel and tread out into the dusk. The canopy lights above the gas pumps buzz as moths whirl by, and a chilled breeze raises the hair on the back of my neck as I make my way to my truck, key in hand. The old Ranger has seen better days, but it’s paid off. Keeping costs low for survival is pertinent when your wealthy family is searching for you. Carter always was the favored brother, soon to be even more so if he completes the final tasks my father laid out for him. A ritual of sorts, an induction into the family cult where only men are allowed.
I’d asked my mother once if we’d ever had a sister, and she balked at me before quietly hanging up her apron and shutting herself in the bathroom until dinnertime.
I can still hear her sobs echoing in the chambers of my nightmarish memories. That was when I began to understand, even at just ten years old, that something was different about our family. Something I couldn’t place, but something my soul rebelled against all the same.
Slamming the door shut, I lock myself in and take a steadying breath, fingers trembling as I attempt to shove the key into the ignition. Gunning the old truck to life, I peel out onto the desolate road, my social anxiety gripping my chest and forcingmy toe to press down harder on the gas pedal. Home is safe. My truck is safe. Anywhere else is dangerous.
Not because I am afraid of others, but because I am terrified of what I know I am capable of inflicting on them.
When my thoughts trail to the past, as they often do, I space out until I’m jostling along the gravel driveway to my home; a three story craftsman in need of far too many repairs for me to be able to afford at the present. No lights greet me. No family. Not even a dog.
But my heart begins to race all the same.
Before I know it, I’m unlocking the side door and entering, quickly closing and latching the three deadbolts and hanging up my keys. My fingers pluck the old clown mask from the hook, sinister thoughts lurking in my soul. My heart rate kicks up another notch as my dick begins to throb in my jeans. A key—an ancient skeleton that came with the house—winks at me in the dying light from the windows as it dangles on the last iron hook. Fishing the candy bar out of the bag, I toss the rest of my purchases to the floor carelessly and yank the key from the holder, thudding in my militaristic boots down the dark hall to the lone door at the end.
Plaster flakes from the walls in chunks, revealing the lathe beneath. The wood floors groan like an aged dog beneath my weight. The original crystal knob refracts the light of the rising moon that spills in through a small window to my right. Jamming the key into the hole, I wriggle it around until it catches, and the door swings open, the hinges screaming.
A set of steep, red-carpeted stairs lead down into obsidian. All is hushed, save for the mad beating of my heart. My body becomes stifled in my jeans, hoodie, and boots, but I pocket the key, slick back my hair, and don the mask regardless.
Chilled, stale air aids in cooling me slightly as I begin my descent, the entire house groaning like an old man settling intohis worn chair. Planting my feet firmly on the cracked concrete at the bottom, I reach up through the dark and pull the string that I know is dangling in front of my face. The light that erupts from the glass temporarily blinds me, the disruption met with harsh, ragged breaths pulled in through a tiny, pointed nose.
She cowers away from me in the corner on the bare mattress, hands cuffed and chained to a loop I drove into the floor a week ago. Duct tape seals her lips shut, and her terrified green eyes plead with me from across the space, a defenseless animal begging a wolf not to devour her whole.
If only I could explain to her what my intentions are.
Her thick, curly, dirty blonde hair hangs limply to her shoulders, her eyes rimmed in red and her round cheeks stained with innumerable tears. This, I expected. Time is what she will need to adjust to her new life.
Someday, she will come to realize what I did for her, how I saved her. I can be patient with her until then.
Sucking in a calming breath through my nose, I release it slowly into the mask, creating a layer of dewiness on my face that I itch to swipe away. I think she hates clowns, or at the very least, she does now. Chains rattling, body trembling in stark fear, she begins to cry anew as I take a measured step forward, and then another, and another. With a whimper, she backs herself as far into the corner as possible, turning half her body away from me.
Crouching at the edge of the mattress, I hold her gaze, watching as her eyes flick to mine and away a dozen times in the span of a second. I study her, cocking my head to the side, watching the strain of her perky breasts against her dirty white tank top. Her silk shorts give my lecherous eyes the perfect view of her milky, soft skin, her legs muscled and strong. My jaw still aches from where she kicked me six nights ago. I smile beneath my mask at the memory. She is a fighter, deep down, somethingI marvel at and respect, something the darker side of me wants to provoke simply so I can tame her.
But there is a task at hand, one we’ve yet to attempt over the past three days, and I’m not above bribery. Slowly, I bring forth the candy bar, holding it out to her. Those cutting peridot eyes bounce to the orange and brown wrapper. Still being slow and methodical in my movements so as to not spook her, I twist on the balls of my feet and point to the left corner of the unfinished basement where a wall shower resides. I installed it a month ago, a simple fixture jutting out of the wall above a floor drain. Less privacy than I’m sure she’d like and far less aesthetic than her pretty videos she used to post online.
Eyes finding hers again, I raise the candy bar, still pointing to the shower, my question clear. Her stomach gives a hearty grumble, and I chuckle silently. She’s refused food, but she has had water. Worry gnaws at me. If I can’t find a way to get her to comply willingly, then I’ll have to force her, something I’m prepared to do but would rather not.
I’d prefer if she broke herself. Then I wouldn’t seem so bad in her eyes.
She makes no move, no indication she understands me. Nothing but raw fear and desperate anger resides in her catlike eyes. Sighing, I know I need to stick to my plan of approach with her if I ever hope to move this relationship along. Tossing the candy bar aside, I stand to my full height, and watch in fascination as she shivers in my shadow, whimpering and squeezing her eyes shut against the possibility of what I may do to her.
Striding to the shower, I crank it on and step away, turning my back to her as I carefully pull off my shirt and hoodie, one hand keeping the mask firmly in place. She cowers when I return, sobbing now against the duct tape, desperately trying to climb the cold, concrete walls and dragging the chains with her.Producing the key to her cuffs, I snatch one of her wrists amidst keening cries and muffled pleas, subduing her for long enough to free both of her cold hands.
