Page 147 of River Wild

Carrie

“N-Neil,” I feel like I’m choking his name out. My vocal cords strangled by the realization that he’s here.

Here in my house.

How is he here?

“H-how d-did you f-find me?” I’m stammering. I can’t help it. My body is trembling so hard; I’m rattling from the inside out.

It only gets worse when I see the gun in his hand held at his side.

Hope.

It’s my only thought.

Please don’t make a sound, baby.

I need him to not know that she’s here.

He lifts the gun and rubs the barrel against the side of his head, up into his blond hair, which was always cropped short but has now grown out. It looks messy and unclean. As the rest of him does. Blond whiskers cover the lower part of his face. His clothes are unclean and crumpled.

This is a man who would beat me for failing to iron out a single crease in his work shirt. And, now, he is wearing a shirt that hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for a long time.

Even in this terrifying moment, the irony is not lost on me.

“It wasn’t easy.” His voice is like needles piercing my skin. Every syllable agony to listen to. “I’ve been looking for you since the day you left. I’ve been looking all over the country in fact. Smart move, coming to Texas, Annie. I really wouldn’t have thought to look for you here, knowing how you hate the heat. You’re brighter than I ever gave you credit for. But then I got lucky and happened to stumble across a news article online about a woman giving birth to a baby in her car on the side of the road. With a picture of the woman accompanying the article. And who was that woman, Annie?”

Me.

He knows about Hope.

I feel fear like I’ve never known before.

I swallow down gravel.

“Me,” I whisper.

He laughs a deeply scary sound. “You could change your hair to every color under the sun, Annie, even change your face, and I would still know it’s you. And you know why? Because you are mine, Annie.”

River. Where are you? I silently call.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” I stammer.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” he mimics. “You’re always fucking sorry, Annie!”

He starts to pace in front of the door, blocking that exit. Not that I can leave without Hope.

I think about if I could make a run for it down the hall to Hope’s room and get her from her crib and climb out of the window.

But there’s no lock on the door. I wouldn’t make it in time.

He stops pacing. “Is the baby mine, Annie?”

I don’t know how to answer. If I tell him the truth—that, yes, Hope is his child—he will take her from me. And he will hurt her.

If I tell him no … he might still hurt her.

But he’ll hurt me first if he thinks she’s not his.