He’s not coming, I have decided. Quickly after that, I make a vow to stop waiting for him to show up. I’m going to get out of here.Pushing through the lingering trace of dizziness, I approach the hatch. The bolts visible between the wood are thick and solid, but the screws surrounding the hatch don’t appear to be. Starting with my thumbnail, I try each one to test for weakness.
It’s worth stating, for the record, I’m a science major. Give me a vial of acetone and hydrogen peroxide and I’ll make it go boom, but hardware? I can’t say I’m a dab hand at property maintenance. Still, I try each screw as if I’d magically know what to do if one were to shift beneath my nails, and grow irritated when none of them do.
After this, I try a more aggressive approach, forcing my fingers into the crevices around the hatch and trying to tug it open. The splinters hurt as much as the cramp that sets in, and I rear back, punching the hatch and instantly regretting it. Crying out, I cradle my hand, whimpering at the bolt of pain encasing my knuckles. Dammit, I’m a mess.
At a loss, I push my ear to the floor, trying to decipher if there are any vibrations pulsing within the house. The bass of a speaker, maybe, or the use of a drill. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the wood is too thick anyway. Sitting back on my heels, I blow away the tendrils of hair covering my face.
It's the unknown that’s killing me. Why am I here? What’s the goal? What does he want? Did he give me those small home comforts for a reason? Are they a distraction or a test? These questions and more revolve around my head, frustration outweighing the fear. Feeling restless, I walk over to the lamp, wondering if I can use the bulb to burn or the glass to cut. Neither option seems helpful in this situation and will only hurt me further.
So there’s one option left. I stretch out on my back against the cold floor, palms flat, feeling for the faintest tremor of movement through the wood panels. There’s nothing but the stillness around me, so I do what I always do when I can’t standbeing trapped in my own head. I daydream. I take myself far away from the wood panels and into a bed of artificial grass.
Inhaling deeply, I trick myself into believing the air is fresher. Overhead, the imaginary dome projects an open sky and the occasional bird flying past. It’s no surprise my mind has brought me back here, as it’s one of the last places I felt truly calm. Before the ultimatum was set, before my heart was torn in two.
Instead of only Clay being at my side, this time, they both are. Rhys on one side, his body radiating heat even through the pretend sunlight. Clay is on the other, his arm lazily draped over my waist. The picnic blanket is gone, the basket and food forgotten. There’s just the three of us. No noise, no rules, no eyes watching. In the safety of my mind, we can have the one thing we were never granted. Peace.
I’ve been refusing to think of them for too long, because it just hurts too damn much, but I need them now. The men I will likely never get over. I’ve peaked at nineteen, and even though we never managed to form anything official, it sure was fun. The sexual tension we leant into, the barriers we broke down, the sense of belonging I’d long since forgotten. If it hadn’t been for external circumstances -cough, cough, Kenneth, you fucker -we might have been able to keep going for a while longer.
Are they worrying about me? Do they even know I’m missing? For all they know, I’m sitting in my Aunt’s attic wallowing in misery, and no, the irony isn’t lost on me. I’m eager to be free from one cage just to run to another. I try to imagine what they’d be doing.
Clayton might be wondering where his roommate is. He’s probably enjoying the quiet too much to care. He must hate me for not being able to choose, but I know he’ll deal with it internally. No one will notice the difference in his tough exterior, whereas Rhys is more of a pressing concern. I pray to whoeverwill listen that he doesn’t dive straight into self-destruct mode. That he isn’t projecting the pain I saw in his eyes onto anyone, especially himself.
Closing my eyes, I allow the feelings I’ve been pushing down to surface, but I’m unprepared for the freight train of emotion that barrels into me. I’m consumed, drowning in a sea of guilt and despair I shouldn’t have unleashed. Tears sting my eyes, the moment I broke their hearts staring back at me in my mind. Even if I find a way to talk or fight my way out of here, I won’t see them. I won’t check in, won’t force myself to still be a part of their lives like I’m not the one who wrecked it all.
“Hey,” a soft voice sounds in my head. I smile despite myself, just happy for the distraction. “Can I come in?”
“Um, y-yeah,” I call out, probably louder than necessary. Rolling my head to the side, I watch the hatch door open smoothly as if I didn’t almost break my fingers trying to pry it free. Kenneth’s head pops up, his eyes wild as he hunts for me. I remain on my back, watching his expression brighten as he spots me, his small smile more endearing than it should be. Call it Stockholm syndrome, but when he looks at me so openly, I struggle to remember he’s the villain.
“I’m sorry it took a while, but I’m ready for you to come down now,” Kenneth says into the mic clip on his collar. I don’t move at first, unsure if this is another trick.
“I…I thought you weren’t calling the shots,” I reply uselessly. Why am I even questioning this? But the longer Kenneth stares at me, the more trepidation rolls in, and I think I’m right to be cautious. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I put the world the right way up.
“I’m not,” Kenneth briefly looks away and my heart plummets. Oh god, is there someone else in the house? “But I can’t live with myself leaving you up here, and I can’t let you go either. So I…Harper proofed?” Kenneth winces and shrugs.“The doors are locked, the windows are bolted and shatterproof. There’s no phone line and no neighbors, so I wouldn’t bother screaming if I were you.”
“What would you do if you were me?” I ask, genuinely curious about his thought process.
“I’d come downstairs. Maybe use a real toilet,” his gaze shoots to the corner of the room and back. My face sets on fire with embarrassment. “And have a shower,” Kenneth adds, unable to hide the twitch of his nose. It takes everything in me not to lean down and try to smell myself. Am I so far gone that I didn’t even recognize my own stench anymore? Clearing his throat, Kenneth ducks his head, his own cheeks burning red. There’s vulnerability in the motion, a complete role reversal happening before my eyes.
“So, would you like to come down and join me?” he asks, shifting his weight uncomfortably. I nod, crawling towards the hatch while forcing the alarm bells blaring to life in my head to quiet. Kenneth lowers down the ladder first, the metal rungs groaning beneath his weight. At the bottom, he waves his hand to signal it’s my turn to descend on shaky limbs. I don’t get to see much of the hallway before I’m ushered through the nearest door. Kenneth stands in the doorway, letting my gaze sweep over the bedroom before I bring it back to his face.
“The shower is through there,” he points to an adjacent room. “I’ll be back shortly, I’m just going to go deal with…” he gestures vaguely towards the ladder. I don’t argue, even as he closes the door and locks me inside. The mic remains on, his voice crackling softly as he mutters intangible words to himself. I wish I could make out what he’s saying, but the groaning of the ladder and the shuffle of movement is too loud.
Swallowing hard, I tear my eyes away from the sound, taking in my surroundings before panic has a chance to take root. The room is minimal. A bed pressed against the far wall, crisp whitesheets tucked within an inch of their life. A single chair and a narrow desk with nothing on it but a glass of water. The walls are painted white, lacking any decoration or color. The air smells faintly of bleach covering up the dust embedded in the carpet, like no one actually lives here.
Just as I’m about to head into the bathroom, a gag crackles through the mic, followed by a breathless, “Oh, Jesus Christ,” and the unmistakable clang of a metal bucket. My soul withers and dies right then. There’s no way I can block out the following sounds, no matter how far across the room I venture in a bid to put the mic out of range. But then again, is it really me who should feel uncomfortable in this scenario? Kenneth shouldn’t have trapped me in an attic for hours, possibly days, and he really shouldn’t have given me coffee if he didn’t want me to shit in the bucket.
Chapter Six
“Rhys, we’re going to have to call it,” Clayton pipes up from the passenger seat. My forehead is currently leaning on the steering wheel, the cramp in my chest possibly that of a heart attack. We’ve been to every home. Every address listed in that bastard’s file. None of his previous foster parents have seen him in years. No one knows where he goes during the holidays when he’s visiting ‘family’. We’re out of options, and I can’t have that.
“We keep driving,” I state into the hollow of the wheel. The leather is pressing into my forehead, no doubt leaving a pattern, but I can’t find the will to sit upright anymore. I’m losing the will to do anything except quietly rage. How is this asshat getting the best of us? What resources does he have that I don’t know about?
“Drive until what? We see him skipping down the road with a bag of groceries?” Clayton deadpans. “We might be completely off base. The fact that the cops haven’t caught up might mean we’re in the wrong place altogether.”
“Or they’re fucking idiots,” I snide back. The lack of police presence means nothing in a town rife with crime. Any uniforms around here will be corrupted by the gangs that run thesestreets. That’s how I know Kenneth must be here, it’s the perfect place to hide. Inhaling the scent of leather and grease from the fast food wrappers stuffed into the passenger footwell, a tremor rolls down my spine. I’m failing her. In everything I do, every decision I make, I can’t stop failing her.
Suddenly, something presses against my shoulder, and I flinch so violently, it’s as if I’ve been resuscitated. Clayton’s eyes blow wide, the hand he touched me with hovering in the air between us.
“What the fuck was that?” I rage, my eye twitching.
