“Nice try,” Kenneth mutters, making no move to reach into his pockets. “There’s no network connection out here.” Adding my points to the old envelope he’s been keeping score on, he hums to himself in a tune that doesn’t make any sense to my inner ears. Of course there's no connection, but the words ‘out here’only tighten the knot of worry growing in my gut. Just how far from civilization are we?
I keep my posture relaxed, feigning indifference, but my mind races with plans, options, and every possible escape route. Kenneth’s energy is unpredictable. He could snap again or suddenly soften, and I need to be ready for either.
“Kenneth,” I lean forward and blink with large, innocent eyes. “I’m getting a little bored with Scrabble. Is there anything else we could play?”
Twisting his lips, Kenneth looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling.
"I think there are more games in the boxes upstairs. Should I grab one?” he asks. Nodding along with the charade I’m invested in, I start to carefully place the game pieces back into the box. It’s probably an antique and worth money to whoever bothers to come back and claim it.
"Sure, why not? We have time.” I hope my smile isn’t overkill, but Kenneth doesn’t seem to notice. Lifting the tranq gun, he pushes it into his waistband and heads for the stairs. My gaze follows him, waiting for the breath brushing across the mic to mix with the rummaging of boxes.
Seizing the moment, I dart across the room and peek through the closed blinds. The concrete road stretches into the distance, with no sign of another building or any life, but someone thought to build a road through here so it must lead somewhere. Clay's truck sits by the sidewalk, the evening sun glinting offits orange hood. I test the window, locked as expected, before quietly lowering the blind, trying not to make any noise. A door closes somewhere upstairs, and I freeze, only to realize it's the sound of Kenneth in the bathroom. The noise of him peeing fills the silence in my head, which is completely gross but buys me a few more minutes.
Carefully making my way around the room, I notice the front door is locked from the inside, with a huge brass padlock hanging from the chain. So much for us both being trapped here. Kenneth has secured the lock, and he must have the key. Heading through an open archway, I enter the kitchen and run towards the back door, blinds drawn over every window in between. Again, it’s locked from the inside. I curse beneath my breath, turning my attention to other details.
For one, the refrigerator is stocked with packets of frozen meat and ready meals. My stomach twists at the thought of an actual decent meal. Moving onto the cupboards, I find that amongst the cans and tins, the milk is long-life and the eggs are powdered. There’s enough food to hold us up in here for weeks. Checking through the drawers, there’s not a single knife, grater, peeler, or anything sharp to be found. Even the forks are fairly blunt.
“What is it?” Kenneth's sudden, sharp voice fires into my head. I spin around, unable to stifle the scream that escapes me, only to see that he's nowhere in sight. Clutching my chest, he continues, obvious to the shaking of my legs. There’s a subtle hint of a response, my mic clip picking up on the quietest muffle of words. With a stutter of my heart, I realize that he’s on a phone call. So much for no connectivity. “Yes, she’s secure, and the trap is set. They’ll set off the sensors before they make it anywhere near the porch. I made sure of it.”
My world turns on its axis. A cold sweat prickles at the back of my neck as I crouch, listening to Kenneth's muffled voice andthe occasional snatch of conversation. The reality of my situation sinks deeper than I realized, more sinister than I gave Kenneth credit for. My pulse thunders. Leaning back against the counter, zoning out of anything that isn’t the conversation I shouldn’t be listening too.
After the occasional grunt, Kenneth hisses, “Those fuckers,” and sighs. I desperately wish I could hear the other end of the call. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not getting in.” There’s a clatter, a toilet flush and a stream of water that tells me I’m out of time. Diving into the cupboard, I gather Doritos and cookies in my arms and return to the dining table, forcing a shaky smile as Kenneth stomps out the stairs. Putting down the dusty box, his eyes narrow.
“What have you been doing?”
“Grabbing game snacks,” I reply, holding them up like an offering, hoping to distract him from my snooping. Sitting cross-legged on the chair, I nod toward the box in his arms. “What did you find?”
There’s no fooling Kenneth. With a downturn of his mouth, his spine straightens as a guarded expression settles over his face.
“I’m guessing you heard all of that,” his head nods to the stairs. I wince guiltily.
“Not on purpose,” I admit. There’s no point lying. I’m completely out of my depth here, unable to hide whilst in plain sight. Keeping his jaw clenched, Kenneth glares at me without a trace of the guy I was recently playing Scrabble with presently. He huffs, his fists clenching.
“Your damn heroes are scouring the country looking for you, digging into my past. They’ve been blabbing their mouths to all of my past foster parents. As if they haven't done enough damage already."
The revelation that they're searching for me, that they’re doing it together, causes my mind to start racing. Do they feel obligated to save me, or is it something more? If they're working together, does that mean Clay has changed his mind? Could Rhys forgive me for what I said? The possibilities sweep me away, my thoughts swirling as quickly as my gaze shifts.
“And there it is,” Kenneth snarls, his stare intensely watching for my reaction. “The glimmer of hope that says you’d run straight back into their arms, after everything. Don’t you get it? They can’t keep you safe. They couldn’t even protect you from me. How are they going to protect you from…other dangers?” Kenneth catches himself just in time.
Before I can respond, before I can press for the real end of that sentence, Kenneth grips the edge of the dining table and flips it aside. I shriek in surprise at the outburst and his strength, holding my hands up defensively. I don't know how to deal with him like this. He's nothing like the Kenneth I remember. Not bubbly, kind, thoughtful, or gentle. It's as if changing our surroundings has changed everything about him, and I desperately want the old Kenneth back.
Through my fingers, he stalks towards me and grips my arm. Something cold and blunt presses into my side, and I gasp with terror. The tranq gun nestles between my ribs, the threat of it enough to make my feet move.
“Wait. Just hang on,” I plead as he moves me towards the staircase. “It’s okay. It’s just you and me here, and I haven’t fought you once. We can sort this out. We can go back to playing. Nothing has to change.” It’s a bitter lie, because we both know this scenario we’ve become caught up in was never meant to last, but my mouth runs away with me. Anything to get him to stop dragging me up the stairs.
Kenneth marches onward, his grip tightening every time I try even the smallest twist of my arm. He’s breathing too fast intothe microphone, dragging me with jerky, uneven pulls, the tranq gun remaining wedged against my ribs. Yet all I can think is, I can’t sit in the bedroom all night, waiting to be let out. I can’t do all of this again tomorrow. I can’t keep pretending my heart isn’t out there somewhere, scouring the country in search of me.
“Please, Kenneth, can’t we find a way out of this? I’ll help you. Let me help you.” He doesn’t react, sharply turning the corner at the top of the stairs. I let my body stumble, let my fear look messy, let the useless attempts to yank away from him seem frantic.
Halfway down the hallway with the bedroom door in sight, I jerk sharply to the side in feigned panic, forcing him to adjust his weight. His torso shifts, his hip brushing against my stomach before he manages to regain his composure. Kenneth curses at me to stop fighting, to behave, to stop making this harder, and I whimper loudly as we approach the bedroom. He shoves me inside hard enough to cause me to fall, my legs sprawled out, and my arms clamped close to my sides.
“Kenneth, don’t do this,” I beg one last time, forcing my eyes to well with tears. I want to do this the easy way, to appeal to the person in there who was actually my friend. Reaching up with a face made of stone, Kenneth switches off the mic clip, plunging me into silence. Every time I’m suddenly cut off from the world, it’s like having the rug whipped out from underneath me. He tugs the door shut without an ounce of regret, and between the wood slats, I see the lock slide into place.
Scrambling forward, I press my palm to the floor, feeling for the faint vibrations through the floorboards. Only when I’m certain he’s gone do I draw myself into a ball, sitting with my back pressed against the door. Then, with trembling fingers, I withdraw Kenneth’s phone from where it’s tucked into my armpit. Unlike the smartphone I knew him to have, this one isold and blocky. It’s a burner, and therefore, it doesn’t require a passcode.
I don’t know how much time I have. Don’t know if he’ll have a change of heart and come back to check on me. Or how long it’ll take before he realizes my acting skills are better than either of us thought. My fingers slip against the buttons, every second pressing tighter against my unsteady heart.
Typing Clayton’s number into the keypad, and thankful my mind seems to have committed the digits to memory, I press the call button with a trembling hand. I can’t hear if he answers, so I stare at the screen. It calls out, cancelling itself without going to voicemail. Stifling a whimper, I hang up and try again, holding the phone so tight that my fingers cramp. Again, the call rings out.
