But whatever else, he’s right that I need to lie down. My legs are trembling with every step and my head won’t stop spinning. So I let him lead me to our king-size bed and he tucks me in under the covers. If there was any chance I might make it out of here, that chance is gone once I get in the bed. It feels like sleeping on a cloud after passing out on that cot for the last two nights.
My eyelids feel like lead—I can’t fight the urge to fall asleep. Andy sits beside me, at the edge of the bed, running his fingers through my hair. “You just haven’t been feeling well,” he says. “You need a day of sleep. Don’t worry about Cecelia. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
His voice is so kind and gentle, I start to wonder if maybe I imagined the whole thing. After all, he’s been such a good husband. Would he really lock me up in a room and make me pull out my hair? That doesn’t sound like something he would do. Maybe I just have a fever and this is all a horrible hallucination?
No. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. I know it was.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
Andy ignores my statement as he continues to stroke my hair until my eyes drift shut. “Just get some sleep,” he says gently. “That’s all you need.”
FORTY-TWO
Step Four: Make the World Believe You’re Crazy
I wake up to the distant sound of water running.
I still feel groggy and out of it. How long does it take the body to recover from being deprived of food and water for two days? I look at my watch—it’s the afternoon.
I rub my eyes, trying to identify the location of the running water. It seems to be coming from the master bathroom, which is closed. Is Andy in there showering? If he is, I don’t have much time to get the hell out of here.
My phone is sitting on the nightstand by the bed. I snatch it up, tempted to call the police about what Andy did to me. But no, I’m going to wait. Until I’m far away from him.
Except the phone is filled with text messages from Andy. The sound of his messages must’ve been what woke me up. I scroll through them, frowning at the screen.
Are you OK?
You seemed to be acting really strangely this morning. Please give me a call and let me know you’re all right.
Nina, is everything OK? About to go into a meeting, but let me know you’re OK.
How are you and Cece doing? Please call or text me.
The last text is what gets my attention. Cecelia. I haven’t seen her in two days. Before that, I had never gone one day without her. I wouldn’t even leave her to go on a honeymoon. Where is she right now?
After all, Andy wouldn’t have left me alone with her if I was asleep, would he?
I look up at the closed bathroom door. Who is inside the master bathroom? I had assumed it was Andy, but it couldn’t be. He’s been texting me from work. Did I leave the water running by accident somehow? Maybe I got up and used the bathroom and forgot to turn the sink off. It seems possible, considering how out of it I am.
I throw the covers off my legs. My hands look pale and shaky. I try to get up, but it’s hard. Even though I’ve had water and rest, I still feel awful. I have to hold onto the bed to walk. I’m not sure if I can make it from the bed to the master bathroom.
I take a deep breath, swallow my dizziness, and walk as slowly as I can. I get about two-thirds of the way there before I collapse to my knees. God, what is wrong with me?
But I need to know what that sound is. Why is there water running in the bathroom? And now that I’m closer, I can see that the light is on inside the closed door. Who is in there? Who is in my bathroom?
I crawl the rest of the way there. When I finally make it to the bathroom door, I reach for the handle and push the door open. And what I see when I get inside is something I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.
It’s Cece. She’s inside the bathtub. Her eyes are closed and she’s propped up in the tub. The water is rapidly filling the tub, rising above the level of her shoulders. In another minute or two, it will be over her head.
“Cecelia,” I gasp.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t cry or call for me. But her eyelids flutter slightly.
I’ve got to save her. I’ve got to shut off the water and drag her from the tub. But I can’t get my feet to work, and every movement is like going through molasses. I’m going to save her though. I’ll save my daughter if it takes every ounce of my strength. If it kills me.
I crawl across the bathroom floor. My head is spinning so badly, I’m not sure if I can hold onto consciousness. But I can’t pass out. My baby needs me.