‘They didn’t find this one.’ We follow a barely visible trail deeper into the woods, away from civilisation. If anyone were to see us – Jack in his cream turtleneck and navy wool coat, me in my dark green duffle and knee-high boots – we could be mistaken for a couple enjoying an intimate winter walk. ‘Jeffrey took me hunting, you know.’
‘When?’
‘On our solo trips to Wisteria.’
‘I thought he kept you in the basement room? You said he only made you pose for photos?’
He shrugs. ‘There were a couple of occasions we went out and did stuff. I took a real interest in hunting and he liked to show me how skilled he was with a gun.’
How much of what Jack told me is true? Did Jeffrey ever really keep him in the basement or was that some twisted story to gain sympathy? He’s an architect – it’s possible Jack built that room just for me. As we pick our way across the snow-covered earth, I take deep breaths, squashing down the need to escape.
We stop just before a clearing. Jack crouches slightly, motioning for me to do the same.
‘Look,’ he whispers. I follow his gaze. Thirty, maybe forty metres ahead, a deer forages, oblivious to our presence.
‘Pretty,’ I say even as a knot twists in my stomach.
‘I want you to shoot it.’
I stare at him. ‘Me?’
‘Yeah. You should know what it’s like to take a life. It’s powerful. An experience we should share.’
The way he refers casually to murdering Noah makes my skin heat with revulsion, despite the cold. I look down, brushing imaginary snowflakes from my coat so he can’t see the disgust on my face. For the millionth time, I wish I’d never agreed to come to Wisteria. Then I remind myself that even if I’d insisted I didn’t want to go along with his plan, Jack would’ve taken me to the cottage by force. He acted like I had a choice, but I never did. Just as I don’t have a choice now.
‘Here.’ He hands me a set of binoculars he’s taken from the rucksack. ‘Watch her. Get to know her.’
I hold the viewer to my eyes, magnifying the warm rust colouring of her fur, the white smattering of spots along her body, the long lashes framing her large dark eyes. She grazes, using her nose to shift the snow, uncovering patches of grass.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I say, lowering the binoculars.
‘Even beautiful things aren’t exempt from the kill,’ he says, fixing me with a penetrating stare. He takes them from me, then looks through them himself. He doesn’t move a muscle, he’s tense and alert, his focus entirely on his prey.
I hold still too, even as my thighs burn from crouching, but my gaze darts all around, noting any possible escape routes if I get the chance to run. I think about screaming as loud as I can, but if there’s no one around to hear it, Jack will just drag me back to the car and I’ll never be allowed out again.
‘You’re nervous,’ he says.
‘I don’t want to kill anything.’
‘Everyone wants to hunt and anyone who says they don’t is lying. It’s an undeniable, primal need. You eat meat.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘It is,’ he counters. ‘All meat comes from a kill. If you’re going to enjoy meat, you should take pride in killing it first.’
‘So this isn’t just for fun … you’re going to eat the deer?’
‘Why can’t it be for both?’
I swallow hard.
He puts the rifle in my hands. It’s heavy, alien; I’ve never held a gun before.
‘You’re going to shoot her.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘It’s simple.’ He comes closer and before I can protest, he rests the butt against my shoulder and shows me how to aim. I see the deer through the rifle.
‘You need your weight behind it.’
His hands drop to my hips. My heart scatterguns. I don’t want his hands on me. I’m back on the hill, his grip bruising as he holds me down. The rain mingling with my tears as I beg him to stop.
‘You can do this,’ he whispers, moving my hips to shift my stance. Then he slips his hands around the front of my body so I’m pressed firmly against him.
‘You’ve got two shots. First to wound, second to kill. She favours her right, so, when she tries to run, swing right, cut her off before she can escape.’ His breath fogs in the wintry air. ‘Just squeeze the trigger.’
We are playing a game of chicken. I’m pretending to trust him and he’s pretending to trust me. He wants to know how far I’ll go to please him, to convince him he’s won me round and all is forgiven so we can skip, hand-in-hand, into the realm of happily-ever-after.