Chapter Twelve
Rye
Ryeregrettedthesecondhe closed the door because the room was almost immediately darker, the air thicker and heavier. And it was harder to breathe.
It didn’t matter, though. He needed the space. He needed that barrier—even if heknewit wouldn’t really protect him from anything. Even if heknewJake could still follow him, find him, hurt him or... or worse.
As soon as Jake had said they were in Rocky Cove, every ounce of everything holding him together had vanished, and he hadn’t been able to breathe except to sob.
All this time. All these years. All these however-manyfucking—
No. No, no, no!
Scrunching his eyes shut, Rye grabbed roughly onto his left upper arm with his right hand and squeezed. Hard. Hard enough to hurt. Maybe even hard enough to bruise. He stumbled on weak legs toward the far side of the room, and he only let go of his arm when he reached the corner. Then he turned to face the door and slid down to the ground, his back against the wall.
He buried his head in his knees, trembling.
He should have known. He should have known, and he should have... What? What could he possibly have done?
Dammit.
Damn fucking stupid child.
He gripped his upper arm again, stifling a sob as a rush of early memories bombarded him, reminding him of that first day. The first minute. The first few minutes.
And he quickly realized it hadn’t evenbeenmore than a few minutes. Ten minutes maybe.
That was how long he’d been in the car with the man.
Only. Ten. Minutes.
He wasn’t sure why he’d never realized it before—maybe it was because everything else about the memory had always overwhelmed him so much. But it all seemed perfectly clear to him now.
Perfectly clear in its horror.
They’d gone past Sycamore. Then past the turn that would take them into town. Then the man had turned left, and they’d driven for only a few more minutes down a long, winding, bumpy dirt road as the sun had inched lower and lower in the sky and the shadows had grown darker and Rye’s tears and cries to please take him home had been met with more cursing and then a rough smack across his face and a hiss of “shut the fuck up you damn fucking stupid child.”
God.
God, he’d still been in Rocky Cove.
He’d still been in Rocky Cove, and no one had found him, and he hadn’t somehow escaped sooner. And... god, was his mom... ? Was she even...?
Another strong, sharp shudder ran through him, and he couldn’t hold back his sobs anymore. He curled up onto his side, his back still against the wall, and his entire body shook as he cried. He didn’t even try to be quiet; it didn’t matter anyway, did it?
No one would hear him. And even if someone did, no one would care. At least, not in the way he would want them to. And he’d be just as stuck and just as alone and just as... just as hopeless and sad and desperate as ever.
He wrapped his arms tightly around his midsection, ignoring the pain that spread through his side, and he cried and cried and cried.
And just as he’d expected, no one came for him—neither to comfort him nor to punish him.
His tears ran out after a while—he couldn’t be sure how long—but he didn’t move from his corner, even when the evening light streaming through the window faded and disappeared, leaving him in darkness. He wiped his cheeks but stayed curled up on his side, and he kept his eyes scrunched closed, his back to the wall, its solidness giving him something to anchor himself to.
And he used it. He focused on it now—the wall. Itwassolid and smooth and... warm, somehow. And the floor, too—a soft, light-colored carpet that almost seemed to pull some of the deep chill out of him. It really made no sense, but that was what he felt.
Rye lowered one hand to the floor, splaying his fingers. Then he ran his hand across the top of the carpet slowly, feeling the individual fibers underneath his fingertips.
It was nothing like the cold, hard concrete he was used to. Nothing like that basement. Nothing like anything he’d felt in... however-many years.
