“It will never cease to amaze me how you can continually victimize yourself. You didn’t get what you wanted, and you blame everyone else. Never mind the way you’ve been shitting on me for months, rubbing my nose in what you could give Harper that I couldn’t. Why would I want a life like that?” Grinding my teeth together, my jaw flexes. I don’t have to look at Rhys to know he’s settled back into his seat, an air of superiority taking over.
“You should have taken the hint and backed down a long time ago,” he mutters. I shake my head at myself.
“I’m an idiot for thinking we could call a cease fire, even when she’s depending on us.” Leaning forward, I turn the radio back on, putting an end to the back-and-forth I should have known better than to start. Soon enough, we’re speeding through town after town of boarded-up buildings, Rhys jumping red lights as if he might become infected with poverty if he lingers too long.
Beneath the streams of morning sun, we pull into the main street indicated on the GPS. Less than five minutes from now, we’ll find out if we’re on the right track. If we’ve made the right decision by going rogue to find our girl. However, the butterflies of anticipation in my gut shrivel and die at the sight passing us by.
Every building looks like it’s been rotting for decades. Crumbling brick, boarded windows, and the occasional half-collapsed porch barely clinging to the frame. What’s left of the old shops are tattooed in graffiti and neglect, while the streets are lined with tents and broken furniture instead of cars. We roll past a community high school, or what’s left of one. Its gates are chained shut, the surrounding walls coated in a patchwork of spray paint. Names, insults, and declarations of love for gangs or ghosts. The deeper we drive, the quieter it gets. Even the airchanges, becoming thick and sour, the kind of smell that clings to your clothes and won’t wash off.
“This place makes my old street look like Sunset Boulevard,” I mutter, thumbing the window button until it seals. The glass does nothing to block out the scent of rot and oil. Rhys doesn’t offer an answer or opinion. He’s scanning the rows of houses like he’s expecting Kenneth to step out from behind one with his hands raised.
Suddenly and without warning, Rhys jerks the wheel and brakes hard. The truck jolts to a stop in front of what used to be a home. Not a soul is present along the street, as if everyone knows to stay hidden behind their closed blinds. The Raptor’s engine ticks as it cools, the pair of us sitting for a charged moment once the engine has been killed. There’s no need to get out, not when we’ve already gotten our answer from the view out of my window, but Rhys hops out anyway.
A rusted mailbox hangs from a bent pipe, labeling this property as ‘139 Bakersview’, or what’s left of it. Beyond the bullet-ridden and grimy mailbox, all that remains of the house are the bones that haven’t been gutted by fire. The walls have caved, the roof gone, leaving only a skeletal frame of charred beams tangled in ash and weeds. The air smells faintly of smoke even now, as if the memory of what used to stand here is still burning.
Rhys stands frozen for a beat before something inside him snaps. He storms forward, his shoulders tight as slams his fist into the mailbox. The metal gives with a hollow clang, flying off its post and landing in the overgrown yard. For a heartbeat, he just stares down at it, then crushes it beneath his sneaker until it’s as mangled as the ruin behind it.
I stay in the truck, watching the scene unfold. There’s nothing to see. No clues to find, no hint that life exists. My only solace is that the fire is long since extinguished and not recentenough for Harper and Kenneth to have been inside. He didn’t bring her here. We were wrong.
My chest tightens, and I drop my head back against the seat, exhaling through my nose. I’d been so sure we’d get ahead of him, that we’d find her before Kenneth could vanish underground. Now, staring at what’s left of this place, I feel that fragile hope slipping through my fingers.
When Rhys climbs back in, his jaw is locked, his breathing uneven. Blood seeps through the white fabric of the shirt he has changed into. He slams the door and grabs the brown folder from the backseat, flipping through it with shaking hands. The pages flutter before he grabs his phone, jamming his cracked screen too hard as he puts in the next address. One of the group homes Kenneth was moved to. I try to comment that he’s better off holding on while I work out which addresses are clustered together, but he’s beyond listening.
The engine growls back to life. I can hear the desperation in every rev, the frantic need in each jerky swerve as we pull away, leaving the ashes and ghosts of Bakersview behind. We pinned everything on finding something useful here, but that doesn’t mean we’ll stop looking. I, personally, will never stop until Harper is back in front of me, presenting me with the ultimatum of her own. This time, I won’t make the same mistake. This time, I won’t walk away.
Chapter Five
I wake with a dull, pulsing headache, each throb pounding behind my eyes like a warning drum. The thin light bleeding through my eyelids only makes it worse, a needle-sharp intrusion against the fog in my skull. With a groan, I drag my hands over my face and curl tighter, drawing my knees to my chest until the ache in my body outweighs the one in my head. The sheets are damp and tangled beneath me, the old springs pressing cruelly into my ribs. Mildew and copper cling to the air, and the metallic tang of blood settles in my throat before the memory of where I am finally drags me back to reality.
Wait. There’s light. My eyes snap open. I sit up too fast, and pain explodes behind my right eye, forcing me to steady myself with a hand to my temple. Now my blood is rushing south, I can pinpoint the source of my headache at the back of my skull where my head hit the wall. I gingerly reach back, hissing at the feel of my fingers brushing my scalp, but they no longer come away sticky. That’s a good sign, surely? Not that there’s anything I can do about it either way.
Across the room, the glow of a standing lamp cuts through the shadows, though the bulb is bordering on fluorescent. Mygaze tracks the cord snaking down to the floor hatch, vanishing through the cracks of its locked frame. Next to the lamp sits a small crate holding a travel mug and a box of doughnuts. The sight is a blessing to my hollow stomach, but my focus catches on what’s beside it instead. A tower of books precariously stacked. My chest tightens, a small gasp passing through my dry, cracking lips.
He gave me books. And coffee. Kenneth, the man who drugged, kidnapped and caged me, has given me access to my favorite things. I’m supposed to hate him, supposed to be gearing up to claw and scratch my way out, but I still can’t bring myself to hate him. I pity him and his past, that bleeding heart of mine catching on the idea that I might be able to help. That I can get out of here in a gentler way.
Sliding off the mattress, I half stagger, half crawl across the wooden floorboards, the rigidity of them hurting my knees through my sweatpants. Not for the first time, I’m thankful to myself for changing in the parking lot. Doing this in the confines of an evening dress would have been an added layer offuck my life.
Brushing my fingertips over the book spines, I trace the worn covers, feeling the comfort of the printed titles. They’re classics mostly, some Austen, Brontë, and Wilde, but a few modern thrillers too.
Selecting the top book from the stack, I drag the crate back to the mattress as if that’s my safe place. It’s not any more comfortable than the floor, and it would be easier to read if I stayed under the light, but I press myself all the way back against the wall regardless. From here, I can see the entire room and have a direct view of the hatch. Without my hearing, it would be too easy to sneak up on me if I were bathed in light and invested in the book I’ve grabbed.
Although, as I look at the paperback lying next to me on the mattress, I have no desire to open it. I can accept the coffee and the food, needing sustenance and my strength, but the book is a step too far. It makes this feel too much like a haven and not enough like an imprisonment. Kenneth is either extremely clever or naïve, and I’m starting to think it’s the former. He’s keeping my guard down, recognizing my need to fix rather than fight.
Cradling the mug carefully, I stare at the hatch, refusing to look away. Steam fogs my vision, although the warmth seeping into me does nothing to calm the tremor in my hands.
I still feel off-balance, like the room is tilting slightly to one side. Or maybe that’s because I’m holding my head at a weird angle, trying to find a position that stops the dull thumping at the top of my spine. I sip, I watch, and I sip some more until the coffee is gone. Despite the caffeine, my eyes start to droop once more, the silence lulling me into a false sense of security. Shaking myself, I groan in frustration. Come on Harper, you need to stay alert.
When I reach for the doughnut box, my stomach clenches painfully, reminding me how long it’s been since I last ate. My fingers shake as I peel it open, finding four inside. They look fresh, or at least fresher than the last lot. I take one, the icing sticky beneath my thumb as I sink my teeth in. It’s sweet, nauseatingly so, but it gives my body something to hold onto. Something normal. I chew slowly, forcing myself to focus on the motion rather than the panic bubbling in my chest. All the while, I stare at the hatch. In particular, where the lamp cord disappears into the gap where metal meets wood.
If the power is on, then Kenneth is still in the house. What is he doing down there? Waiting for me to scream? Expecting me to try and escape? He could be sharpening his chainsaw blade for all I know. Without my hearing, I’m stuck with myown imagination to fill in the gaps. That’s why I keep eating the doughnuts and downing the coffee until I get a stomachache, fueling myself with enough sugar to stay lucid. Where my hearing falls, my eyes cannot.
The room feels smaller with each passing breath, the slanted ceiling pressing closer, shadows curling into the corners. I don’t know how much time passes, minutes, hours or maybe more, but I can’t stay here forever. Pressing a hand to my chest, my heart hammers against my ribs. Then, something even worse happens.
My bladder begins to throb with insistent pain. I stand and start pacing, one hand pressed against my stomach. It starts as a bounce, then turns into a desperate, full-body wiggle that would almost be funny if I weren’t terrified of being caught in the act. I glance toward the corner where the metal bucket waits, shining proudly in the newfound gleam. My whole body stiffens. There is no way. Not when someone could be listening.
A strangled groan escapes my throat as I press my thighs together and rock on my heels. I try humming to distract myself, but that’s a terrible idea. All I can think of are rivers and rainstorms and waterfalls roaring in my head.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, but the ache is unbearable now. Dignity is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. “Fuck it,” I hiss, staggering toward the bucket with all the grace of a casual drunk. “I’m gonna have to use the damn thing.”
