But that moment has haunted me for years, that teasing proximity to freedom.
Would I have been a murderer if I’d left him to die?
“I shot you in the shoulder,” he says, “with a nine millimeter. I knew it’d pass through. Most people can survive that.”
“You couldn’t have known that.” I roll my eyes—mostly at myself for hearing him out. “You left me in the middle of nowhere, bleeding out . . .”
It wasn’t the first time he made me bleed. I’d existed a mere three weeks with his monstrous alter ego when he appeared late one evening, knife, bucket, and gauze in tow. With dead eyes, he sliced the flesh of my stomach as I writhed against my restraints, filling the small container with my blood. I passed out after that. When it was over, I was bandaged, my muscles aching where he’d slashed through them. And when I slid a hand across my pulsing scalp, my fingertips grazed torn patches.
I know now that he used my blood and hair to stage a crime scene—something to make the police have reason to suspect I’d been killed and disposed of. A local medical examiner was quoted as saying, “It’s highly unlikely a person could survive that kind of blood loss.” That douche was instrumental in getting the judge to approve my death certificate.
Idiots.
All of them.
“You weren’t going to die,” he says. “I just didn’t think you were stupid enough to come back.”
The door busts open, slamming on the other side. Merritt’s shadowy figure fills the narrow doorway, a skeleton key pinched between her fingers.
I expect him to solicit her help—or for her to react. But for an endless handful of seconds, the three of us are frozen in a silent standoff.
“Merritt,” I say, breaking that silence. “I’m going to need you to stay calm.”
Her watchful gaze passes between us.
“There’s something you need to know about your husband.” I nod toward the dresser. “Those papers over there—those are life insurance declaration pages. Luca has five million on you and your daughter.”
The skeleton key lands on the floor with a metallic clunk before she strides across the room and gathers the papers in her hand. Squinting in the dim light, she studies the words, pages through the documents, and checks the backs.
Her clear, crystalline eyes turn a bone-chilling shade of blue from across the room as they narrow in on her husband.
Safe to say she didn’t know about these . . .
“You disgust me.” She spits her words at her husband, still residing on the opposite side of the room. “You’re a sorry, pathetic excuse for a man.”
Gone is the docile wife and mother I’ve come to know in recent weeks, and in her place is a woman scorned.
Standing back, I contemplate my next move. I thought it’d take more convincing. I thought I was going to have to argue my case a little harder than this . . .
“A million dollars on our daughter?” She waves the papers in the air, wrinkling them in her tightened fist. “What were you going to do, Luca?” Merritt drags a hand through her messy hair. “Did you put one on the baby, too?”
He doesn’t say a word. In fact, he hasn’t said a word since the door swung open and his wife joined the party.
“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” I say. “He’s the one who took me. He held me captive for years. Staged my abduction so he could cash in on a two-million-dollar life insurance policy. And he tortured and raped me, week after week. He’s the one who tried to kill me, who left me for dead. If he could do it to me, he could do it to you and your children, too. He’s sick, Merritt. The worst kind.”
“She knows.” Luca’s voice is low, defeated almost. And it takes a second for me to realize he’s not speaking to Merritt. “She knows everything.”
He’s talking to me.
“The whole thing was her idea.” Luca’s lips tighten. “Tell her, Mer. Tell her you picked her yourself. Tell her you planned every last detail.”
“You’re a goddamned liar.” My middle turns rock-hard, and the air around me thickens. I point my knife at his face, which suddenly feels no different than pointing a scrawny tree branch at someone wielding a gun. If this is true, it’s two against one, and the odds are absolutely not in my favor.
With trembling hands, Merritt places the papers on the dresser, and then she turns to me, eyes glossy. “Don’t listen to him, Lydia. He’s lying. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s good at. I’ve been uncovering them left and right these last few weeks . . .”
Luca yanks the restraints again, his legs flailing until the quilt and covers slide off the side of the bed and fall into a heap on the floor.
“You’re sick, Luca.” Merritt points at him, her words terse. “We’re leaving.” Turning back to me, she places a hand over her lower stomach. “I hate to ask, Lydia, but can you help me get the kids in the car?”
He tugs harder this time, and his fingertips are pink-white from the lack of blood flow. “Don’t listen to her, Lydia. Don’t believe any of it.”
A thick tear slides down Merritt’s bare cheek, and she tucks her chin low as she heads for the door.
“You can’t leave me like this.” Luca writhes, digging his heels into the lumpy mattress. But all my years of knowing this bastard won’t let me feel sorry for him. I follow Merritt. Whatever happens to Luca is no longer my responsibility. I’ll get her out of here, hitch a ride to town, and go straight to the police. They can deal with him.
I’m officially done.
He carries on, yelling louder, screaming for someone to untie him.
“My keys are on the counter.” She takes slow, careful steps down the hallway, stopping outside one of the bedroom doors. “If you could start the car for me . . .”
“Of course.” I trot down the steps, find the BMW fob on the counter, and head outside. The headlights of her SUV blink when I get closer, and the door locks click. Once inside the driver’s seat, I glance around the cockpit-esque dash and to the side of the steering wheel . . . until I realize I have no idea how to start this thing.
Abandoning the keys in the cup holder, I jog inside and follow the light upstairs, where I find Merritt, wrapping her sleeping daughter in a small blanket.
“Can you carry her to the car for me?” she asks, wincing as if she’s both exhausted and in pain, though it’s impossible to know if it’s emotional or physical. “And buckle her in?”
Her daughter starts to wake, her sleep-heavy eyes scanning between us.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She rubs Elsie’s back. “Mommy’s friend is going to put you in your car seat. I’m getting your brother, and I’ll be right there.”
I take the toddler, who is heavier in my arms than I imagined, and I carry her down the rickety wooden stairs and out the front door. It’s a strange thing, holding my abuser’s child in my arms and carrying her to safety. Not something I ever imagined I’d be doing in my lifetime. But a minute later, she’s buckled in and I’m on my way back for the other one.
Luca yells from his room. Louder. Harder. More desperate.