I step into the shower, let the warm water wash over me, use the bar of soap in the teak dish to clean myself slowly. It smells of coconut, reviving my senses some. But my body feels heavy, my mind cloudy, thoughts crowding, then taking flight like frightened birds. Leaning against the white tile, I summon my strength. Tonight will be the night that I escape this place, one way or another.
I am the storm.
But those are just words. My body and mind are weak.
Robin crouches in the corner of the room, and I sink down onto the gray stone floor of the shower, let the water beat on my back. We regard each other.
“How do I get out of here?” I ask her.
She whispers the answer, but I already know it.
I have to kill you. If I had done it that first night, I wouldn’t be here. If I had let Jay kill my father, they’d still be alive. Some people are predators; all they do is harm. Sometimes it’s kill or die.
The key to the dead bolt is on a ring in his pocket, Robin says.
I heard it jingling as we walked down the hall.
The gun you brought is loaded in the drawer beside the bed.
It’s just a guess. A hopeful one.
You push into the bathroom, and find me crouched on the shower floor. You enter through the steam, reach in to turn off the water, and help me from the floor. There’s a towel folded on the wooden shelf beneath the wide marble sink. You wrap it around my shoulders and lead me from the room. So strong. So gentle. Your touch sends waves of revulsion and fear through my body now.
There’s a dress on the bed, a simple black wool shift, camel cashmere wrap because you know I get cold, some lacy underwear that no doubt will fit me perfectly.
“I’m making dinner. Join me when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Let’s make a fresh start tonight.”
“Yes.”
Your eyes linger on me as you close the door. When it’s closed, I head straight for the table by the bed. But, of course, it’s empty. I look for Robin but she’s gone. She’s out of her league here, just as I am. Neither one of us knows how, or if, I’ll survive you. Poor Robin, she’s only as strong and smart as I am. I guess I always knew that, even as a kid.
I dress slowly, my body aching, my heart pulsing. The lace of the undergarments you chose is sexy but soft. The dress slips over my shoulders and fits perfectly, clinging to and glancing off all the right places. The wrap is heaven. A velvety pair of flats slip onto my feet; I don’t recognize the designer but they’ll be pricey. You despise the flashy brands—Jimmy Choo, Louboutin, Chanel, Valentino. People without style buy those things to communicate wealth, nothing to do with beauty or art. Just, Look at me and what I can afford to buy.
I step out into the hallway and walk toward the great room.
I already know that there are only two doors, both dead-bolt locked, no windows that open. That those windows are double-paned, argon-filled, impact glass and will bear two hundred mile an hour winds and most things that wind might hurl at them. They won’t be broken by a chair, or desperate pounding. Another lesson I have learned the hard way.
I know that there is no other property for miles. That there is no way for anyone who might be looking to track me here. I am only a few hours from The Hollows, but I might as well be on the moon. You have disposed of my car. The gate is locked. This property, this home is utterly off the grid.
And now I know what happened to Bonnie, Melissa, and Mia.
I know because it’s happening to me.
I sit at your table and you bring two glasses of wine, place one before each plate. The liquid is bloodred, the crystal gleaming. Aromas from the kitchen waft, heavenly, and my mutinous stomach rumbles.
I resist the urge to break the glass against the table and lunge for you with the sharpened edge. You are far stronger and faster than I am. You don’t trust me anymore and you’re on guard. This is yet another bitter lesson I’ve learned—over and over. It’s finally sunk in. I am as obedient as a schoolgirl.
My hands are shaking.
You light the candles, glance at me with dark, loving eyes.
You favor Chopin Nocturnes and, suitably grim, the music plays softly in the background.
Anyone peering in through the window would think we were an elegant, loving couple sharing a beautifully prepared meal. I could post this moment on social media, filter it: #romance #datenightathome. I’d be the envy of all my followers.
When you return to the table with our plates—a beautiful filet and delicate sliced roasted potatoes, brussels sprouts cooked with bacon and drizzled with aioli—you place the food before me and take your seat.