They used to visit often. Now, it’s once a week—if that. I’ve told them I want to come home, but Jacob keeps reminding them that the men who took the photographs are still out there. That Jackson’s appeal is coming up soon.
It’s a battle I’ll never win—not while that threat keeps hanging over my life.
“Summer, sweetheart.” Mama throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek. “You’re not dressed!”
“It’s early, Elaine, not every female takes three hours to put on some makeup and brush their hair.” Papa winks, a cheeky grin forcing one of his dimples to the surface.
I let out a forced laugh and gesture toward the kitchen island. Mama shrugs her jacket off and hangs it on the back of one of the leather dining chairs.
“You know, now you’re settled here, you ought to think about putting your own touch on the place,” Mama says, looking around the beige, minimalist room.
I head over to pour the coffee, biting my tongue. I want to scream at her. I don’t want to live here. I want to get out before I cave and go completely insane. Before I let some kind of Stockholm syndrome swallow me completely.
Instead, I turn my head and force a smile.
I place the mugs of coffee in front of them and excuse myself to the hall. I need a moment to gather myself before I unravel again. My parents, who now feel like strangers, will not be the answer to my freedom—that much is clear. So, not only am I aiming to run away from Jacob… I’m running from them, too.
In truth, I don’t think the relationship with Mama and Papa will ever be fixed after this. I’ll never be able to look at them as the doting parents they once were.
I used to imagine Christmases, gathered around the tree withtinsel and lights adorning the room. My child straddling Papa’s lap and a husband who held my hand and brought me wine.
But now, after what they’ve done to me, after how they’ve handed me over to the devil himself, that dream is fractured. When I do get away, when I do meet a man and have a child, they’ll have nothing to do with any of it.
Of that, I’m certain.
I hear footsteps above me, and then the quiet noise of the shower running. Jacob?—
The moment I’ve waited for. My chest is tight, lungs straining for space, and before I can second-guess myself, my feet carry me down the hall. Past the photographs Jacob has hung like trophies. Past the locked front door. Straight to the one room he spends most of his time in but never lets me enter: his study.
That must be where he keeps the surveillance—the feeds from cameras dotted through the house. Every time I try to run, a ping hits his cell and he’s there; a notification, a footprint on his screen, and the chase starts again. That’s why I never get away. It isn’t luck or stupidity that traps me—it’s wiring and red lights that blink like tiny eyes.
If I can get into his study and find the feed, maybe soon I can make my final run. I can plan, but I need to be able to move before he knows I’ve moved.
I took the key from his bedside drawer last night. He had headed out to the store—it was the perfect opportunity. I just hope his bedroom doesn’t have a camera.
I hardly slept a wink last night, worrying that he would notice it was missing. I’ll put it back as soon as I’ve found what I’m looking for.
I twist the key; the knob is cool in my palm. For a second, I almost turn back, the urge to retreat pressing at me like a hand between my shoulder blades. But I push the door open anyway, slipping inside before I lose my nerve. The curtains are drawn, the aircolder in here, like even sunlight knows better than to trespass. His desk is painfully neat—papers stacked into perfect squares; a single pen lined up against his notepad. His badge rests in a patch of shadow, glinting just enough to remind me that all of this—me, this house, this cage—sits under his authority.
And then out of the corner of my eye I see it. A filing cabinet. Heavy. Black. Each drawer neatly labeled in block letters: Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter.
My stomach knots. Who even organizes their life like this? Seeing Summer stamped on metal in this room makes my skin prickle. But then I stop to think—are these seasonal files? Or is it something darker?
I crouch down, fingers trembling as they graze the cold metal handles. The silence in the room is deafening, like the walls are leaning closer to watch. I try Spring first. The drawer slides open with a low groan. Empty. Too empty—like it’s mocking me for ever expecting otherwise. Autumn. Also empty. Winter. The same.
Each clang of the drawers echoes in my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of the last one. The handle is worn, faint scratches carved into the paint where his grip must’ve lingered. He touches this drawer. A lot. That much is clear. My pulse hammers as I tug. It’s locked. I rattle it once, twice, teeth clenched. Nothing. Just a stubborn refusal, like the cabinet itself knows I don’t belong here.
I stay there too long, staring at that single drawer, feeling. What’s inside? I don’t know. And maybe not knowing is worse. Because if the others are empty, then everything Jacob keeps—everything he saves—is here. Behind one locked handle.
I press my palm against the metal. It’s cold. Solid. Unyielding. I hate that I’m shaking. I hate that part of me wants to find the key, to tear it open, just to prove that I’m right about what I already feel in my bones.
I need the key. I need to find what’s inside.
When I finally pull away, my skin feels clammy, my chest tight. Because Jacob isn’t just keeping me in his house. He’s keeping pieces of me somewhere I can’t touch.
I hear movement from the ceiling above and realize he must beout of the shower. I rush to my feet and leave the room, closing the door carefully to make sure he doesn’t know I’ve trespassed. I’m devastatingly aware that I hadn’t scoped out the camera feed, because I was too taken aback by the cabinet.
By the time I push open the porch door, my lungs are begging for air. I brace against the railing, gulping it down like water, because if I stay in that house another second, I might suffocate.
