by Alana Terry
“She was stubborn. There was a boy there that she liked.” The words jog a distant memory, the vaguest of notions that at one point I also was a teenage girl who had crushes and went out to parties and did things I hoped my parents would never find out about.
“You were beat up pretty bad.” He’s staring at me now, but there’s something strange in his eyes, like he’s not really looking at me at all. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. For a second, I want to ask him to stop, but then I think that maybe if he gets the rest of this story off his chest, it’ll finally bring him the relief we’ve been searching for.
“I went out looking for you. I searched everywhere. And there you were, in the woods behind your old school. I swear I didn’t lay a finger on you. It wasn’t me, but they wouldn’t believe me. Police asked me all kinds of questions. Why I went out looking for you myself instead of calling 911. Why two girls said they saw me pick Jennifer up from that party even though I said she ran away. Why I couldn’t show them the next day exactly where it was I’d found you so they could test the crime scene themselves. Why I brought you home and didn’t think to take you to a hospital right away. I had no idea the injuries were that bad. She was in bad shape, Jennifer was, but I thought she was drunk. Heaven and everything blessed forgive me, but I thought she was drunk and that’s why she was so floppy in my arms. Kids do that, you know. Teens do that. But they did an autopsy and there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in your system, my little pineapple. I’m sorry I ever even suspected you. You hadn’t been drinking, but I didn’t know that. I thought you just needed to come home. I thought you needed to sleep it off.”
Henry’s voice is cracking, and my heart aches so much it’s decided to hold still. I can’t erase the words you say next. Can’t stop you when you start to cry.
“The next morning, I wanted to let you sleep in. By the time I started to get worried, you were cold. Heaven help me if it’s not the blessed truth. You were already cold. I called 911 right away then. Screamed at them to get me an ambulance. Begged them to help you, but they couldn’t. It was too late by then. But that wasn’t all. It was bad enough losing you. Then everyone thought I’m the one who did it. I was in a bad way after Jennifer’s mother died. Lost my job. Didn’t function too great. One doctor said I had an illness in my brain, but he was a quack.
“I’d gotten angry with you before. I guess you even told the school counselor you were worried for me. You had every right to tell her those things, by the way, and I’ve never blamed you, but by heaven that counselor took your words and twisted them and told the police that you were scared of me. Can you believe it? Scared of me. And they couldn’t understand how if it happened the way I said it happened that I could have just put you in bed to die. Heaven help me, Jennifer, but I swear I had no idea you were that bad off. You’ll never forgive me, but you have to know how sorry I am. I love you so much, pineapple. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
And something clicks in my head right then. Memories of home, of love, of my parents. It’s like I’ve been living under a shadow and the spell is finally broken.
I look at Henry, who’s begging me to believe him, whose cries have turned into sobs, and I wake up from a two-year-long hypnosis.
“I believe you,” I say, gritting my jaw because I truly want to gag on the words. “I know you didn’t mean to do it.” Except I’m lying to him. For the first time in Henry’s basement, I feel like my brain is working clearly. Call it survival instinct, or maybe it was the answer to all my mother’s prayers, but I realize now that I’ve been duped by a crazy man.
A man who’s not only crazy but a murderer.
“I believe you,” I repeat, even though I’ve put the pieces together to know exactly what happened to Henry’s daughter so many years ago. The way he talks about it, the way he lets things slip out, this bizarre explanation he’s trying to get me to believe, I can read through the lines and finally know what happened.
Jennifer sneaked away from home. That part’s true enough. She went to a party, probably flirted with that boy Henry mentioned she liked. And the rest is easy to piece together. Henry realized what she’d done. Either he went looking for her himself or waited until she came home. Where he found her didn’t matter as much as what he did next. Beat her to death. Then put her in her bed. Turned off his alarm and waited until she was completely cold before he called the police the next morning and made up an elaborate story about driving all around town and finding her battered body in a field.
I know it’s true as clearly as I know my name isn’t Jennifer Harris. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my home. There’s a life and a family and a future beyond these cement walls, and somehow I’m going to get myself out of this prison. Henry won’t let me leave without a fight, but if it comes down to his life or mine, I’m going to win my freedom no matter how much it costs.
CHAPTER 18
Jennifer stared at her father in his ugly, beat-up Chevy. She knew she should be afraid, but it took her a half second longer than it should have to wipe that stupid grin off her face, to forget her elation over the absolutely perfect night with Darren. It wasn’t until she heard her father’s voice that she understood how much trouble she was in.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Dad sounded eerily calm. She would have felt far more comfortable if he’d been yelling at her.
“Get in the truck,” he growled.
Jennifer hesitated a moment too long. In an instant, her father reached his hand out the window and yanked her by the arm. She hit her head on the side of the door, the dull metallic thump giving way to a high-pitched ringing in her ears.
“Did you go deaf all of a sudden?” Dad growled, his fingernails digging into her flesh. “Get in the truck.”
Jennifer heard a noise from the front porch. She glanced over to see Shawna and Kylee standing in front of the house gaping at her.
She scurried over to the passenger side, her head swirling with pain and dizziness.
Her father let out his breath, and Jennifer saw his worried expression, his aged face. “Dad, I’m really …”
“I don’t want to hear a word out of you,” he snapped. “Not a word, do you understand me? For years, I’ve done my best to feed you, to clothe you, to keep you safe. Well, how am I supposed to do that when you’re sneaking out at all hours of the night, huh? No, I really want you to tell me. How am I supposed to keep you safe?”
Jennifer bit her lower lip, uncertain if her dad wanted an actual answer or not. The corner of her mouth where Darren had given her that kiss still burned hot. For a second, she worried her dad would look over at her and know everything. Everything she and Darren talked about. Everything they did.
She thought about Darren’s hand holding hers. About how earnestly he’d looked at her. Nobody had treated her as kindly and lovingly as Darren had tonight. Her father certainly had never been so warm and attentive.
If Mom were still alive, she’d understand. Jennifer could tell her about Darren, ask her questions. Mom would know what you’re supposed to say to a boy when you’re done with a slow dance. She’d know if you could call a peck that wasn’t even quite on the lips a real kiss or just practice.
Jennifer crossed her arms. It wasn’t fair. If anybody should have died, it should have been Dad. The euphoria she felt just a few minutes earlier, the confusion and giddy embarrassment that bubbled to the surface when she thought about Darren, the grief that came crashing over her unexpectedly when she remembered Mom … it was impossible to give a name to each and every emotion swirling around chaotically in her soul.
Dad was gripping the steering wheel and muttered something under his breath.
“What did you just say?” Jennifer snapped, her anger now rising to the surface of every other conflicting emotion.
“I said if your mother could see you now, she’d be rolling around in her grave.”
Jennifer’s fists started flying. “How dare you!” she shouted, punching,
scratching, pummeling. “I hate you. Hate you, hate you, HATE you.”
Dad jerked the Chevy to a standstill at the bus stop near the school. He turned to her, the tired expression on his face replaced with a look of disgust and rage.
“Get out,” he snarled, putting the truck into park.
Jennifer stared for a second, trying to catch her breath, trying to replay what had just happened. Had she really punched her own father? He knew she didn’t mean it, right? She didn’t really hate him.
“Dad, I’m sorry …”
“Don’t give me that.” His face was contorted in anger, but his tone was bone-chillingly controlled. “Get out of the truck.”
Jennifer hesitated. “I really didn’t mean …”
Dad reached across her and flung open the passenger side door. “Get out of the truck,” he repeated with a curse.
Jennifer was crying now, not tears of anger but of fear. She raised her eyes to her father, who glowered at her unblinkingly. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
Dad adjusted his belt. “I’m going to teach you some manners, young lady, and you better pray you catch on because one wrong move, and I swear I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.”
CHAPTER 19
I’m shaking by the time we get off the plane. Shaking to the point where my husband has to support me while I walk.
“Are you going to be all right?” one of the gate attendants asks.
“She’s not feeling well,” Russel answers for me. “I think we need to get her home.”
The worker tells Russel something about our bags, the kids are squirrely around me, Andrew’s demanding to know what’s happening and poor little Annie is confused and thinks we’ve already landed in Michigan.
“Where are Grandma and Grandpa?” she asks.
I can’t focus on any of this. Can’t pay attention to the conversations, the noise. I think about that man in the Hawaiian shirt, about how much he reminded me of Henry. I think about the day I escaped, the same day I discovered what happened to his daughter. I think about Russel, about all the things I should have told him before we got married. I was stupid to think that faith and love alone could erase the memories from my past.
Just like I was stupid to think that I could replace the picture-perfect wife he lost.
We’re both broken, Russel and I, but in such different ways. The shattered pieces of our lives in theory might fit together to make something beautiful, but right now we’re destroying each other with our lies, our trauma, our grief.
I didn’t mean to say it. I should have known better after two years in Henry’s basement. But he was so pathetic, sitting there crying, blubbering.
“You’re lying,” I tell him. I haven’t spoken back to him like this since my first few weeks as his prisoner, posing as his daughter, wearing her clothes. I’ve lost weight, haven’t seen the sun in two years. My muscles are weak, but the hatred I feel for him at this exact minute makes me strong and empowered.
This sniveling old man is nothing to be afraid of. He can’t hurt me. Can’t touch me. Because I know his secret. I’ve figured it out. When I look back, I’m pretty sure I’ve always known but haven’t wanted to accept the truth until now. At this precise moment.
Everything Henry and I have gone through together has led to here. Like destiny.
“I know what you did to her,” I say, my voice calm and even.
His eyes grow wide. He probably forgot I was still a human with the capacity to speak my own mind.
“You got mad at her for sneaking out. You got mad because she hated you, because she knew you were nothing but a pathetic old man, and you killed her. You knew she was growing up. She liked going to parties now. She was interested in boys. You couldn’t keep her home, no matter how hard you tried. And you were terrified of losing her. Terrified that she’d wake up one day and realize what a coward you truly are. You saw it happening, saw the end coming. So you killed her. Because you’re sick and twisted and pathetic. You killed her, and you managed to keep enough evidence away from the police that they couldn’t actually arrest you or anything. You got away with it, but the guilt’s been eating you up inside for years. That’s why you’ve made me pretend to be her. Why you’ve made me say I forgive you. Well, you know something? I don’t forgive you. I hate you. I think you’re weak. Pathetic. I can’t stand another minute in this house with you. And guess what else. I’m not your daughter. I’m not Jennifer. But if she were here, she wouldn’t forgive you either. And she’d be saying the exact same things I am. You’re weak. You’re nothing. You’re a terrible father. And you’re totally crazy. You killed her. Killed your own flesh and blood and now the guilt’s making you even more miserable and pathetic than ever.”
Once the words start pouring out of my mouth, I’m certain that nothing can stop them.
“You say you love her, that you’re sorry for what you did to her, but you know what? I don’t believe you. I know you meant to kill her. I know what a horrible person you are. You’re sick in the brain. She wanted to get away from you. You know that, don’t you? And the only way to keep her from despising you was to kill her before she learned how wretched you really are, what a miserable old man …”
And then I stop because Henry’s face isn’t just contorted in anguish. There’s something else there.
“Stop,” he gasps. “Help.”
I want to keep yelling, telling him that I’ve finally discovered his secret. I finally know what kind of contemptible human being he truly is, but I can’t.
Henry’s face is frozen as if carved in stone. He clutches at the collar of his shirt. “Stop,” he wheezes. Sweat’s dripping down his temples.
My heart quits beating at the sound of his voice. I see his chest make a choppy motion. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s happening.
I jump off the couch and grab a flashlight to see better in the dark. Henry’s lips are turning blue, and I realize I’m killing him. Literally killing him.
I reach out for his hand. “What do you need me to do?” I ask. “How can I help?”
I didn’t mean to hurt him. Didn’t mean to cause him actual physical harm. I just needed to get some things off my chest …
His chest …
I place my hand over his heart. Feel how erratically its racing. “What should I do?” I ask.
Henry’s face is ashen gray. “Help me,” he croaks once more.
I race up the stairs. I try to race up the stairs, is what I should say, but my legs are weak. By the time I’m at the top, I realize I’m about to step into a world I haven’t seen in years. I look back down. Is Henry going to stop me? Is he going to yell at me to get back down?
He’s bent over himself. I can hear the labored breathing from here. Does he even know I’m at the top of the staircase?
I throw open the door, steel myself for whatever terrors await me on the other side. Monsters. Guard dogs. Soldiers ordered to shoot me on sight. Instead, nothing but blinding daylight streaming in from the windows. I can’t see anything. Pain pierces to the back of my skull. I have to help Henry.
I stumble into a messy room, a den or a living room of sorts with trash and molding food strewn everywhere. Is there a phone I can use?
I trip over a takeout box. My hands dart in front of me to break my fall. I scrape my forearm on something. I don’t care. Henry is downstairs dying, and it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let my anger take hold of me that way. I should have been more compassionate …
Why doesn’t this man have a stupid phone?
I’m looking everywhere. To my left is a front door with three separate dead bolts protecting me from the outside world. I could run outside, yell for help. I glance out a grimy window. All I see is a looming fence surrounding the house, but beyond that must be something.
Can I get help for Henry fast enough?
I’ve overturned a small table. A shoebox full of photogra
phs has spilled onto the floor at my feet. I pick up one of the pictures. It’s of me. There are dozens of them, all close up, photographs of me when I’m sleeping. My skin is pale. I almost look like I’m dead.
My hands are trembling. I don’t have time to stop and stare, but I do. Because there’s something wrong about the pictures. Something I didn’t notice at first.
I don’t own a shirt like that. And the sleeping head I’m staring at is resting on a pillow. A real pillow with a real pillowcase, not the hard couch cushion Henry’s given me.
Even more surprising, the sleeping girl in the photograph is in a real bed.
And then I realize I’m not looking at pictures of myself at all. It’s Henry’s dead daughter. I drop the images, my heart speeding wildly. I tell myself I’m running outside to get help. It’s the only way I can justify leaving Henry here like this. I hate him. Despise him. Fear him. But the thought of him down there all alone, feeling so remorseful … I can’t make myself leave unless I lie. I tell myself I’ll run and get him help. I tell myself I’ll race down the road, find the nearest house or wave down the nearest car and call 911 to get them to send Henry an ambulance. It’s the only thing that allows me to unlock the deadbolts. They’re heavier than I expected, as if they’ve rusted in place.
Hurry, I tell myself, Henry could die any second.
Except that’s not why I’m hurrying. Not really. I know that once I leave this house, I’m going home, and nothing’s going to stop me.
The last bolt finally slides out of place.
The sun hits my skin for the first time since my capture. I don’t have time to pause and wonder. My only thought is to get away. Do I go right or left? I don’t know. All I know is that I need to put one foot in front of the other. I force myself to be strong, to resist the urge to turn back.