How long had it been? How long since that day when that horrible man had offered to help him and Rye had made the worst decision of his life to trust a stranger? How long had it been since he’d been tossed down that rickety flight ofstairs, into that dark, cold, damp basement? Cursed at for crying. Then beaten for the first time and starved and—
“Stop your fuckin’ crying, boy. You’re a fuckin’ baby. Dammit. I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He could hear the voice again—the anger and the disgust. It seemed to be coming from right behind him, the monster in the darkness. And then he could feel the echo of a rough touch—hands grabbing him hard enough to bruise, pushing him into the solid cement wall, hitting him so hard it forced all the air from his lungs.
God, why did he have such a good memory for some things and such a terrible memory for others?
He closed his fist tighter around the blanket as he tried to push the scary thoughts away and picture his mom instead. Her kind green eyes, her soft voice, her gentle smile. But it was fuzzy. His memories of her, no matter how many times he’d tried to hold onto them over the years, were fuzzy and weak.
And that fact hurt much more than the gash on his cheek and the bruises on his abdomen.
The man had told him a lot of things.
Your mama doesn’t care about you.
She’s glad you’re gone.
She wished she’d gotten rid of you sooner.
She fuckin’ hated you. You were a burden. A fuckin’ deadweight. She’s free of you now. And you fuckin’ belong to me. Stop your fuckin’ crying, or else—!
And at first, he’d known the words weren’t true. He’d known his mom loved him and had to be terrified and scared for him. She’d certainly have called the police to report him missing and pulled the whole town together to look for him. Uncle Jon and Aunt Tanya. Elsie and her family. And Nicki and Raegan and Liam and their families. Mr. Brock from school. And Sam from the ice cream shop. They had to all have been out looking for him.
But as time went on, the man’s words had started to make more sense. Because how could theynothave found him? How could a whole town full of people and the policenothave found him?
So after a while, that idea—the possibility that maybe his mom hadn’t missed him so much after all—it had grown and rooted itself deep within him. Even though heknewit just had to be wrong, even though heknewit with all his being, the man’s words were still there, still causing him to doubt.
A soft knock at the door pulled Rye back to the present—whenever the present was—and his eyes darted toward the sound as he tugged the blanket up tighter to his chin.
Jake—who seemed so kind and so honest, who seemed so trustworthy and nice—stood in the doorway, one hand holding onto the doorframe. Blocking his exit. Large and imposing and filling up the whole doorway. Holding him there against his will.
It wasn’t true—or at least it didn’t really seem true—but at the same time, Rye couldn’t help as his heart started pounding. And when Jake took a small step forward, his face contorted in a pained grimace, Rye involuntarily shrunk back into the corner more.
Jake stopped, frowning, and shook his head slightly. Then he backed up a step. “Are you hungry?” he asked, the gentleness back in his voice now. “I’ve got toast and eggs. I like mine over easy, but if you want, I can scramble up some for you.”
Rye blinked.
“Scrambled eggs à la Davis for my beautiful baby boy,” his mom sing-songed, setting a plate in front of him at the dining room table.
“Mom! I’m eight years old. I’m not a baby!” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly.
But his mom just smiled. “Ryan, no matter how old you are, you’ll always be my baby. Now eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school.”
Toast with scrambled eggs topped with shredded cheese and ketchup.Scrambled eggs à la Davis.And there it was—the image he’d been searching for for years. His mom and her smile. Her soft smile and kind eyes.
He blinked again, remembering where he was, and then nodded and reached up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Scrambled?” Jake’s voice had somehow become even gentler, and Rye thought that if it was a trick of some kind—if Jake was trying to trick Rye into trusting him—he was awfully good at it.
Rye closed his eyes and nodded again.
“Alright. Just give me—” Jake’s voice cut off suddenly, and there was a low grunt of some sort, followed by a sharp breath. When Jake started speaking again, it was obviously through gritted teeth. “Just give me a few minutes.”
The change in Jake’s tone sent a shiver through Rye, and his stomach lurched. He forced his eyes open, but Jake was already leaving the room, limping heavily on his right leg, one hand on the wall to steady himself.
When Jake was out of his view and the footsteps had faded, Rye’s heart finally seemed to settle down a little, and he pushed himself up to sit and then stood slowly, his body aching as he stretched out. His legs felt a little like Jell-O, weak and wobbly, but he managed to stay upright. Then he carefully leaned down and picked up the pillow and blanket, wondering again how they had gotten on thefloor with him overnight. He set them on the bed and started over to the doorway cautiously.
“Yeah, Kris, I know... I know. I just have to finish making breakfast and then—” Jake’s voice carried in from the kitchen, and Rye stopped and listened. “Well, he’s got to eat, Kris... I know. I will, I promise. Besides, I’ve got that deadline next week for that article on... Yeah, white abalone conservation, and—”
