ELEVEN | TARYN
Time passes slowly when you’re trapped.
Too. Damn. Slowly.
My pulse thumps in my ears, a steady cadence now that I’ve been left alone since the twins, Cameron and Brennan, waltzed out like this was the most normal thing in the world. Kidnapping. As if abducting a random girl is an act they have committed several times before.
I’ve never been as fully aware of my surroundings until now. Every minuscule sound or movement somewhere beyond the door freezes my blood solid.
Over the last several hours—which excruciatingly feels like days—I’ve been training my ears to catch every noise that drifts through the house. I’ve heard doors shut, the floorboards creak, a pitter-patter of footsteps running somewhere, the trickle of rain tapping the rooftop, a conversation between crows, and murmurs of voices that sound like the phone noise in the Charlie Brown movies whenever he picks up a call.
I’ve gaped blankly out the window for far longer than I assume is healthy. With the various levels of shingles spread outand cone-shaped roofing, my gut rolls, knowing that I’m at least three or four stories up.
For a while, I analyzed my situation. I peered at the outside world, noting things that may eventually help my escape. Thunderous clouds glide over the expanse of the orchard, unleashing steady amounts of afternoon rain.
Or is it evening?
Honestly, I’m not sure because the damn clock on the bedside table has motionless minute and second hands stuck at two o’clock.
The apple trees rolling over the hills in the distance disappear into the haze, and if there is one thing that’s utterly indisputable after contemplating where I’m trapped, only one place comes to mind. Because when that old woman described what was beyond the gates, I could see it vividly. Almost as if I had been there before.
Lindenvale Hill.
The uneven roof below my window spans out far enough that I don’t have a clear view of what’s directly beneath. The educated part of my brain wants to guess that it’s a driveway of some sort, though I only see a paved road leading down the hill with freshly mowed grass on both sides until it turns to gravel, vanishing into the dark orchard.
So far, the only movement I’ve caught outside is the swaying of oak branches in the yard, crows soaring through the air, some on the roof darting their heads in different directions, and a black SUV leaving the driveway.
The same SUV I saw parked outside my house the first night I moved into town. My phantoms aren’t identityless anymore because now I know who they are. I’m resisting the urge to grab the fork they left with the fruit bowl and stab their eyes out when they walk back up those stairs.
To my entertainment, this room, or tower, has another window facing the back of the house and the hill that quickly crawls down a faint decline to a smaller cottage-type cabin. I can see it perfectly from my window. It has exterior stone walls, wood beams, and framing with the same golden oak color as the fence at the front gate.
To the side of it is a decent-sized garden with plants in raised beds and vines weaving through arches. The flowers in that garden are the only burst of color outside compared to the rest of the front and back yards. I stood at the window for almost an hour to catch any movement coming in or out, but the curtains were drawn. If they were open, though, I’d be able to see inside without any issues.
Directly behind the cabin, it flattens to the orchard since it’s 360 degrees. How do I know that? You may wonder since I can’t see the other sides of this massive castle in my tower.
Because the identical bastards put a framed bird’s-eye view map of the entire property above my bed, in the corner is the Lindenvale Hill Orchard logo—half a red apple combined with a black crow. They put it on the wall to remind me that attempting to run is a reckless idea. There’s one mile of fruit trees in every direction until it reaches the forest line. One part of the property drops off the cliffside into the chilled waters of the Columbia.
The smart part of my brain tells me to stay put—form a solid plan. But their threats mean nothing to me. I don’t want to stick around long enough to discover whotheyare.
And under no circumstance do I want to find out what I’m forced to do to keepthemhappy.
Fuck their happiness.
The sky is darkening now, and a little trail of solar lights flick on and illuminate the road on each side of the driveway.
Awesome. It’s night now.
Grasping onto whatever little sanity I have left, I slump down the stairs. The locked door is straight ahead, and to the right is another door leading to the half-bath. I walk into it, feeling like Harry Potterconfined under the stairs. It’s simple—just a toilet, a sink, and a mirror—but it’s better than a bucket or having to hold it.
Somehow, I lost my hair tie. I’m not sure if it’s somewhere in the bed or if I lost it when they drugged me. So much of my memory is a blank void. Every time I reach into the profound section of my cognizance, it’s just blackness.
My mid-length hair hangs loosely around my shoulders in a disheveled mess, strands hanging over my eyes like I’m the ghost in the attic that haunts this house. And if they kill me, I swear to God I will be the demon that haunts these halls and screws with their untouchable lives.
I’m pathetic.
I’ve barely been here a day and am about to lose my damn mind.
On my way out of the bathroom, my focus locks on the doorknob, and I grasp it again for the fifth time today, wiggling it again and again, thinking maybe if I jerk hard enough, it will magically unlock. It doesn’t.
