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But I didn't.

“Evie…if somehow you’re watching this, know that I love you, and I miss you beyond words. And I’m not stopping. Do you hear me? I’m not stopping until I bring you home.”

And I wouldn’t start now.

CHAPTER SIX

EVIE

“What did he just say?”

I tried to ignore him at first. Tried to drown out his voice like I always did when they got too loud. I wanted to just close my eyes and disappear forever. But every time I opened them again, I was still on the cold floor, staring up at the wooden beams above me.

“You’re Evelyn Rosen?”

Am I?

Evelyn felt like a name that belonged to someone else now.

Wayne only ever referred to me as Angel or darl—two simple terms of endearment that had replaced my true identity. I turned slowly toward Christopher, careful not to move too fast. My head was pounding, and every move was agony. He was half-sitting against the mattress, chains above him shifting with that faint metallic sound.

“You are, aren't you?” he muttered. “You’re her.”

I didn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ. You’re the only one whose body was never found,” he said. “I guess now I know why,” he adds quietly, eyes flicking over me like he regretted it the moment it left his mouth. I looked towards the stairs before speaking.

“People…were looking for me?”

“The whole town was looking for you.”

For a moment, my mind refused it. I used to stare at the door all day long, getting a rush of adrenaline every time I’d hear a muffled slam above us, hoping that it was either Jackson or Peter here to rescue me. But reality won in the end.

As the weeks turned to months, and the months turned to years, I had painfully accepted that no one was ever coming for me. No knight in shining armour to slay the dragon and rescue me from my tower of imprisonment, and certainly no police officers bursting through the doors and stopping Wayne just before he touched me like they do in the action films.

I couldn’t count how many times I would stare out the kitchen window, praying that someone out there was at least thinking about me. That someone, anyone, could remember who I was. Some days, I felt as if I never truly did live outside these walls. That my life before he was just an illusion—a cruel dream that I created to escape reality.

A dull crash echoed from somewhere above us and the ceiling vibrated slightly.

Christopher flinched.

I didn’t.

I rolled onto my side, staring at him, ignoring the drying streaks of crimson that coated my arms, the metallic scent so thick and heavy in the air, I could taste it.

“Are you okay?” Christopher beckoned.

I didn’t answer.

I’d already said too much.

“When were you taken?” he tried again, but I stayed silent. “He can’t hear you,” he added, quietly.

“I’m not…” I swallowed. “Allowed to.”

“Just whisper. There’s no way he can hear you,” he coaxed.

I hesitated, knowing this was a choice I was likely to regret. “1985,” I whispered.