Page 4

A cold wave of helplessness washes over me, removing any resistance I might’ve had. I feel like I’m eight years old again, getting berated for acting scared after my mom had one of her episodes. I’m twenty-six again, losing control of my relationship.

Almost mechanically, I slide away from Caleb’s body. His skin has lost its color, taking on a waxy look that I am sure will haunt me for years to come. As I ready to pass the tall man, he put his arm across my body, resting his hand on my hip.

“And, darling, don’t even think about calling the cops, okay? Abusive boyfriend coming up dead? That’s bound to fall on you. It’d kill me to see you in prison.”

I can’t even respond; I know he’s right. I give him a single nod before getting through the doorway and stumbling down the stairs. My hand grips the banister so tight my palm begins to cramp up.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I struggle to lock the door behind me, my hands still trembling from shock. The click is pitiful, but at this point, it’s better than having nothing to stop him from coming in.

I turn the water on as hot as it can go, stepping under the stream, allowing it to scald my skin. The heat acts as punishment and comfort rolled into one as it washes away the smell of blood and the feeling of Caleb’s cold skin. No matter how hard I scrub, I can’t wash away the image of his empty eyes or the way the man says my name.

I’m furious at him for taking Caleb away from me, robbing me of any chance to fix what was broken and find our way back to the love we’d once shared. Now he’ll never have the opportunity to change. We’ll never have the chance to become what we used to be.

I’m furious at myself for not seeing the signs of someone watching us. I’d dismissed Caleb’s fear as another symptom of his declining mental state. Stupid me, being so… naive.

Tears mix with the water trickling down my face. I want to scream until my throat stings and punch the wall until my knuckles bruise and crack. I would love to break that man’s hidden face, unmask him, and send him to prison for the rest of his miserable life.

What am I supposed to do?

I’m nothing more than this man’s prisoner now.

I wipe my face, attempting to clear away water and the overwhelming grief that’s swallowing me. The weight of it all is settling deep in my soul.

Through the thick cloud of shock and the burn of too-hot water, the realization sets in: I must survive this; there’s no question about it. Whatever he wants from me, whatever game he thinks he’s playing, I have to be smarter than him. I have to always be one step ahead. I have to find a way.

A knock on the bathroom door frightens me, and I nearly slip on the wet porcelain. My heart, which was finally beginning to settle back into a normal rhythm, explodes back into overdrive.

If he keeps this up, I’ll have a heart attack before he even has the opportunity to kill me.

I hold my breath, waiting.

“Darling? Wynnie?” His voice is softer now, almost gentle, but it still rattles me.

I don’t answer—I can’t answer. There’s a lump in my throat, throbbing and blocking my voice.

The door handle shakes.

I grab the first things I can reach: a bottle of shampoo and the pink razor I keep meaning to replace. Poor weapon choices, but whatever, it’s all I have. I hold them tight, as if they might actually protect me from whatever comes next.

Regardless of the lock, the door creaks open. Of course it does; I shouldn’t be shocked. For someone who’s been planning this for months, a bathroom lock is nothing.

He says my name again, and I can hear his boots squeak against the tile floor. I steady my feet on the bottom of the tub, and my grip tightens on the handle of the razor, ready for whatever he has planned.

“I promise I won’t look, but I need you to answer me.”

The promise feels meaningless, the same as the curtain blocking me feels pointless; if he wants to look at me, to get to me, there is absolutely nothing stopping him from doing so. I open my mouth to answer him, but no sound comes out. My vocal cords have apparently decided to abandon me, along with all of my survival skills and common sense.

“Do you know what you’re going to tell people? When they ask about Caleb?”

“You really want me to plan this… right now?”

“I wouldn’t be in here if I didn’t want you to, so yes.”

I pause for a moment, my brain feeling empty, yet swirling with thoughts I can’t grab onto. “H-He died.”

“Wrong answer,” he huffs. I can see the outline of his hand moving up to his face, frustrated with my answer. “You’ll tell them you broke up, that he couldn’t handle the guilt of what he’d done to you anymore, so he skipped town to get his head straight. Can you do that for me?”

For him? Like I owe him this?