I can't even fathom what he wants from me. What is he planning?
I feel like I’m underground. The walls are thick and cool to the touch. The single overhead light is never extinguished, making it impossible to determine if it’s day or night. A chill that I can’t escape, fills my bones.
I sleep when the exhaustion won’t let me do anything else.
Surely a week has passed since I've been locked in this hole. I've counted seventeen meals and I'd estimate there were maybe ten before I started keeping track. I gouge my nail into the hard-packed dirt floor every time one is slid under the door.
I'm going to rot in this room, never seeing the sunlight again. I’ll never see Beau's gorgeous green eyes again. I’ll never tell him I love him or thank him for helping me live in the moment.
Rita's words haunt me. Her dreams of me living my life and not letting anyone choose what I make of it, plague me often. If I'd only listened.
Some days I feel like the only thing I can do is cry. Others, I'm so angry it feels like I could bust the door down with my rage. In between these days, I return to the begging. I plead to be let out, to be free. I bargain, promising not to tell anyone where I was. I’ve screamed for so long it feels like my throat is bleeding. I get no reply. Not. One. Word.
I stop eating. I only drink the barest minimum when I feel like my throat will split. I’m hardly ever awake anymore. When I am, I pray for sleep to take me. I’m not even fighting anymore because there’s no point.
A noise wakes me.
A shuffle just outside the door.
“Hello?” I try to call. It takes my voice a few tries before the word actually comes out.
“Jessica,” my eyes fall closed at the name. I haven’t heard it in years.
“Darryl.”
“You haven’t been eating.” His statement doesn’t require an answer. “Is there…” he trails off shuffling at the door, “Is there something else you want? I remember how much you used to like that cinnamon cereal.” He sounds just like he used to, after a night of drinking. After he’s either called me by my mother’s name or slapped me around. He sounds like he’s trying to apologize for his behavior.
It makes me want to throw up.
“I don’t want cereal, Darryl. I want to go home.”
I feel and hear the door shake, when he either kicks or hits it.
“It’s not going to happen, Jessica. You’ll never leave me again.”
His footsteps thunder away.
Desolation beats at me. I know he won’t ever let me go, but hearing the words spoken, crack something deep within my soul.
Beau
It takes a full day to convey, to both the New York and Alabama police, the whole story. After finding out Darryl was the sheriff of her small town, the FBI is called in, because there's a good possibility he's taken her over state lines.
Cortez and Hall hand over Tasha’s murder investigation, believing the cases are related.
I can't allow myself to think he might have already hurt her. The guilt is a heavy burden. So many things, should have been handled differently. I should have told the police about the connection with the flowers, instead of thinking it was purely circumstantial evidence that they wouldn’t pay any mind. I should have told her when Brian first texted me about Darryl being in the wind, and most importantly I never should have let her out of my sight.
I stand in Sam’s empty apartment, thinking of all the things I could have handled differently, anything that would lead me to having Sam in my arms now.
Her studio is torn apart, having been searched, along with the unit downstairs. After reviewing her cameras, someone spotted Darryl going in and out of the lower apartment. He was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to spring out and take her. I gave him that moment.
I do one of the only things that I think might help. I make a call. Vince, my ex-agent, promises the world on a platter. I ask for a single press conference.
I petition the media for help, standing outside her store. I beg for anyone’s assistance to help bring her home. I choke up, not sure if what I’m saying is even understandable.
They run with the story. They put Samantha West’s face everywhere, and she is nowhere to be found.
I sit watching the news unfold, the small-town community she grew up in rallies around one of their own, admitting something seemed wrong with the pretty young girl who would often sport a black eye or limp. Nobody wanted to believe Sheriff Darryl was capable of such a thing.
I get phone calls updating me of every lead, but they all turn into dead ends. His house holds no clue as to where they may be. The apartment below hers is a mess, walls full of holes, cabinets smashed, some ripped clear off the wall. They tell me they found a few small holes drilled in the floor, so he could either listen or watch her from downstairs.
As disturbing as that is, it’s just another nail in my coffin. Was it me insinuating myself into her life that made him crack? Maybe if I'd just left her alone he never would have escalated things this far.
Days and nights pass. I can't sleep, and can't stand being surrounded by her things, but can't bring myself to leave her studio. I'm slowly losing my mind.
Brian calls every day with updates on how things are going down in Alabama.
It's always the same, "Nothing new yet, Beau, but she's strong. She's tough, just hold on. We'll find her."
Twelve days pass, and I have to do something different. She's out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her, and I'm afraid to leave her apartment, fearing she might come home and find it empty.
Without telling Brian, I make flight arrangements and charter a small plane to Mississippi and fly into a small airport closer to her home than the airport in Birmingham.
I rent an SUV and find my way to where Brian is staying.
Chapter 27
Samantha
I'm no longer tracking the trays. I leave the rotting food piled next to the door. The smell is disgusting, but it can't be that much worse than me. How my body has gotten so filthy in this tiny room gives me something to ponder before I doze off.
Banging and shouting wakes me up. I'm sluggish and can't be bothered to listen to the yells.
My eyes close again.
A crack to the cheek jars me. My eyes are cloudy. Someone’s standing right over me, shaking me violently. Screaming. I have no idea who it is or what they are saying, confusion clouding my thoughts. My body jolts against the thin mattress of the bed. My head is wrenched back, and liquid is poured down my throat. I cough and sputter, gagging.
I turn over, trying to get the water out of my lungs. A fist hits the side of my head.
"You fucking bitch," he sneers.
I'm overwhelmed. I try to pull oxygen into my body between racking coughs. My vision flares bright white. The next blow comes and then another.
I curl forward into a ball. I put my hands over my head, but nothing protects my back as hit after hit rains down on me.
“This is your fault. You should have just listened to me!” He continues to pound his fists on my back, “You’re just like your whore mother. She made me hurt her too.”
He pants.
He finally stops. My body releases. I sag into the mattress. I can't take much more. I feel myself fading into unconsciousness, maybe even death.
I hear him stumble away.
“I thought if I gave you time, stayed away, you’d see. We could have been happy, but you are just like her. You disgust me.” His words are sneered at me. My eyelids feel thick as they fall closed.
I wake up in pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I can't open one of my eyes, and the other is barely a slit. I can’t breathe through my nose. My nostrils feel like they are packed with thick paper towels. I try to moisten my lips. Breathing through my mouth, I feel a few slices and dents along my inner cheeks with my tongue, likely from my teeth sinking into my own flesh.
My shirt is still damp, cold in places and dry in others. I haven’t been out that
long. My jeans are loose from weight loss. The fabric feels heavy against my body from the moisture they retain.
I wiggle my fingers and toes. It hurts. I'm pretty sure my right hand and wrist are broken. I peek down through my good-ish eye. My hand looks strange. There is swelling, so pronounced my skin looks like it might burst.
My stomach revolts when I spot a thin white bone tip poking out from the underside of my forearm.
I swallow quickly, knowing if I dry heave it will send my body into spasms of pain. I want to cry, but instead I whimper. I'm so ashamed of myself, finally met with the opportunity to fight back, to face Darryl, and the only thing I managed to do is not die. Even not dying feels like failure.
I close my eyes and remain as still as possible. I keep my breaths shallow and short.
Darryl’s face swims in my mind. He’s filled with such rage. His voice screaming at me. I don’t know if this is from the past or present.
Sometime later I wake again. I’m cold and clammy. I have a fever. I try to turn on my side to alleviate the pain in my back. A sharp pain in my lower stomach, stops me. My hand moves to cover the injured area, the fingers of my good hand making contact. I scream. My stomach feels unnaturally bloated. I know what that means. I have something much more serious than a few broken bones.
I am going to die in this room.
My thoughts turn morbid as I let myself wonder how long it will before someone finds me dead in this hell hole.
My eyes are dry, but I'm sobbing.
I will myself to think of the few people I've called friends over the years. Rita, Jude, Jess, and George dominate my good memories. I'm so relieved, I made Jude a partner. I hope he's able to keep the store running after I’m gone. I know he'd take good care of it.
I allow myself to think about Beau.
The way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he grins that cocky grin of his, how his lips always tip higher on the right. How he always seems to welcome my touch. The feel of him curled up next to me. I turn my head to the side, pretending he’s there next to me.
His face is the last thing I see, and the memory of his warmth surrounds me.
Chapter 28
Beau
I wasn't prepared for the news that greets me as I walk through the door to Brian’s motel room.
Brian is on the phone. “A lead,” he mouths to me as he nods along to the person speaking to him. Out loud he says, “A promising lead.” He promptly hangs up after a few thank yous, and explains to me, “There was some sort of evidence found at Tasha's apartment, a trace amount of soil. They said there are only a few places in the state where you can find this particular type of red sand. It may help find her or at least narrow the area down to a searchable grid.” I don’t understand much of what is going on. I nod dumbly along to what he says. All I know is that there is something, something that might be able to help find her.
I want to move now, but we are forced to hold tight for a few more hours until we get a green light of the search area.
Hours turn into two days before we are finally given more information. They get a tip about a suspicious van being spotted in a rural area of Lake Martin. FBI agents are going door to door in the area while a group of volunteers search in the surrounding fields and forest. Brian and I join the volunteers. Brian pulls a few strings in order to get a radio that helps monitor the official progress.
We've been walking for hours. Someone in the group begins grousing about being hungry. I want to scream. How can you think about food when she might be close?
Brian places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, reminding me he's here and that he's not giving up. We continue trekking as the search party starts to thin out with people turning in for the day.
The handheld radio in Brian’s hand start squawking and shouting can be heard over the channel. The message is distorted, but I'm able to understand most of it.
“Shots fired...I repeat...shots fired.”
“Suspect is down.”
“Need assistance and ambulances to a house on Churchill Rd and Stillwaters Highway.”
“Three for pick up.”
“Life flight pick up at crossroads of Highway 49 and Route 15.”
The message is repeated several more times.
Terror hits me hard. What if she’s gone? What if we’re too late?
Brian tows me to the SUV, “We need to move now, Beau.”
He doesn't understand why I’ve stopped, “They found her. We need to go now!”
He jumps into the driver seat, throwing the radio down, “We’re only about three miles out.” It couldn't have been more than six minutes since the first radio contact. I grab the radio in my fist listening intently for updates, for someone to tell me she’s okay. The sides of the roads are packed with cars and trucks. Churchill Road is blocked with only police cars and emergency vehicles are moving through.
Brian pulls over, parking half in a ditch. He throws his door open, looking back at me frozen in the passage’s seat.
"Are you coming?" he asks, his voice lifting at the end in disbelief.
"I'm scared," I answer, ashamed of myself.
Brain closes his eyes for a long second. His hand lands on the steering wheel. He turns his entire body to face me.
"Beau, get the fuck out of the car. She needs you. She’s out there. She might be hurt. Nothing about this is okay. Nothing is going to be okay for awhile, but you have to face this. You get me?"
I look over at my childhood friend and nod my head, still not accepting that I need to move. He doesn't understand this fear, how paralyzing it is for me.
An ambulance, coming from beyond the roadblock speeds past, dirt flying behind it. Two cop cars race behind until they hit the wider road. One speeds up and passes the ambulance, effectively giving the vehicle a police escort.
That more than anything spurs me to move. I jump out, running to catch up with Brian. My mind on automatic, responding physically before I can catch up mentally.
He's talking to a man in a black tactical jacket.
"No word on the vic’s condition, just that a life flight is necessary." He tells Brian, then yells out, "Hey clear out of that area we got a chopper landing in two." A couple of local sheriffs look up at him. Their car is sitting in the middle of the road. "Fucking idiots," he sneers, making his way over to the small group of local officers.
The road block is lifted as two ambulances come through slow with lights off, sirens silent. I breathe, relaxing the tiniest bit. If they're going slow, whoever it is mustn't be in too bad shape.
"Do you know if she was in the first one?" I ask Brain.
He turns and looks at me with sorrow clear on his face, "No Beau, the chopper, it’s for her. She’s in one of those." His head tilts to the two idling ambulances outside the house.
"She’s in there? Are you sure?" I ask. I don't wait for an answer as I run up, jumping on the bumper to peer into the windows. I see a uniformed agent smacking the hands of a young EMT. Nothing about his condition screams life threatening. I hop down, hearing people shouting at me. Ignoring them, I look into the other ambulance.
The thin windows of the next rescue truck show me something my brain can’t process. I start wrenching the doors open, because surely there has been a mistake. The person laying seemingly unconscious can’t be her. This battered person laying on the stretcher, looking close to death, can't be Samantha.
When the doors won't open, I bang on the glass, causing the two men inside that are attaching equipment to her to look up.
"Samantha," I scream. Both men return to their work, quickly ignoring my panic.
I feel someone grab the back of my shirt, pulling me down off the bumper.
I swing around and push them away from me.
Brian is at my side in seconds.
"It’s not her. Where is Sammy?”
Brian’s trying to convince the agent not to arrest me. "It's not her. That woman is almost dead. Where is Samantha?"
Bria
n grabs the back of my neck connecting his forehead to mine, "Listen to me, Beau." He squeezes my nape, "You can’t lose it here. You can’t attack an agent like that. You’re going to end up arrested. You need to calm down." I hear his words, but I’m unable to comprehend them or do as he asks. I am shaking my head, pulling away from, in denial at what I just saw, at the state that Sam is in.
“No, it can’t…” I trail off. “This can’t be happening to her.” Brian tries to grab me again. I fight against his grip, pushing him away from me. He staggers back, then grabs my shoulders tightly.
“If you calm down, they might let you ride with her, with Samantha."
"Choppers almost here,” the agent waves at us, “Either get him steady or get him gone!"
My brain is finally catching up my body.
"Oh god," I whisper, Brian releases me, "How could someone do that to her? Oh god, he hurt her."
The noise of the helicopter grows close, I drag myself back from the pit of darkness trying to swallow me. I duck and rush to the back of the ambulance, so I can follow her. There’s no way she's getting on that chopper without me.
The doors open, and the stretcher is pulled out. I see, in clear view now, she's strapped to a backboard. Her head and neck are secured in braces. A thick white blanket is wrapped around her hand and arm.
My eyes are only on her as she’s rushed to the waiting chopper.
I don't understand half of the jargon they use to describe her injuries.
On thing I can grasp is, “Internal bleeding from blunt force trauma.” My fingers clench against the railing.
I breathe heavily, collecting myself. I reach an unsteady hand up to brush my fingers over her swollen cheek.
“Sammy,” my voice breaks, “Sammy, I’m so happy to see you.” I try clearing my throat to get the words out, “God I missed you, Sweets. Can you hear me? I’m here Sammy.”
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